not the time of day or the place, even, but
the movement toward each other, and
the general shape of my hair, the positioning
of my arms, out (I suppose) or on their way out.
I do not dare pose you. So, in the going-overs, you
are the unmapped continent, the endpoint, my
destination. And your voice says my only my name,
endlessly.
And if I could take back my lie, I would say
that the time of day is during the cool sigh of morning,
the last week of summer, and the place is unfamiliar
to both of us, but chosen. Or, perhaps, in twilight,
by half-chance, at autumn's easy peak.
You saying my name and me saying yours,
tumbling together, tired (always, we are tired),
concerned then less about the where and the when;
the who, in every instance, is answered:
you, you, you.
