But, oh, how you filter,
through light and dim, through
pollen and sunset-dust;
I push back these balding things---
how I mold your clay-flesh into future forms:
how I imagine the Saxon earths, the accented cities
apartments with gauze drapes, you and I
sitting face to face on some
godforsaken park bench
dissecting the universe and the sidewalk
(which glows beneath your shoes)
with the neo-archaic wisdom of
How I've made you a man, how we
meet again; I, no different than before,
you, with years etched into you eyes.
How we left the weights from each others' shoulders and become
blithe feathers; how we
both grow great and pennate, and do our tumble-waltz on water
(for fear of damaging our wings in the grass).
How I lose myself to you
and, finally, when I have nothing to weep for,
burst into tears.