Sleepless, we trace constellations on skin,
milky tracks, sheen, and in your eyes
contrails of that ascending feeling you’d had
when we first met, lords of our own faces.
Arm-in-arm we stare out into air rustling
with wishes, moth-struck, swept into a kind of waiting
like a season’s turning, or what weather feels like.
The desire to no longer fall out of ourselves,
prickling at the neck, loosening hips with the look of years.
We stare as if to learn by heart our own baring.
The shackled nights bring on that intent,
the thought that some new feeling will appear
and what we already know will vanish.
So, the leaves, or a leaf, will tell us much.
Knocking on the window-pane, the trees may stir,
magnificent as your hair silvering. In a moment,
in the darkness, I will reach for your hand
wondering, is there any strangeness left?