“As in the soft and sweet eclipse When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips” -- Percy Bysshe Shelley As if I were still autumn, inexhaustible, the last naked, pliant signal coming from your lips (with their unimaginable life somewhere away from the heart of the world) gives my soul a fresh, tender tranquilness. The extra, secret effort to make love more beautiful. Under your compass I imagine a new, clear world of wonderful, delicate questions, while the wet, empty streets of early morning begin to love, and live, forever. A universe away, a moon outlives the voices contending for the keys to night. On this otherness we share I place a questing joy, belief, from the indistinct horizon of my mysterious mind. The viewless unknown is before us, and for each evolution to being, the real, invented stars greet us palely. The air in my heart is of a foreign country where, concealed in a field of tall grasses, clouds rest under my sigh. Our bed is warm and dim with sleep, and love. Hidden deep, interwoven with the darkness, our son’s sleep. We have no name other than what the years to come will imprint on his soft, blue eyes.

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