He saw me. And God, it was painful.

I see you.

The grass and the groaning trees and the wide deep ocean

of  the  night  that  belongs  to us  and  we to it and the

stars  swimming silent  and  the gentle  sleeping moon

and the nearness of  you  lying  here in the  earth  with

me.

(You explain to me the groaning of the trees, lessons your

father   taught  you  that   his father  taught  him.  Your

father knew the voices of the birds. You mother was a

friend of the moon. You  were born  near the trees and

they created you.)

The warmth of your body pressed near to mine.

(Your fingertips make a map of my flesh, my skin, hands

arms face mouth ears, the roughness and the edges of

me.)

The healing hum of your naked voice.

(I forget  myself in the  folds of the night and in the warm

wild words rising eager from the depths of you.)

The  subtle movement of your  soul free here to touch  its

own skin.

. . .

We will leave this grass and walk out resurrected beneath

our sky  and our stars and our moon.  I will  hold your

hand in mine and talk recklessly of tomorrows.

We will  leave our questions  and  our stories  lying  limp

between the blades of grass.

We will whisper new questions and new stories under the

dome of new nights.

We will always belong to the night and the grass.

. . .

Soon we will sit  beneath a streetlamp in the cold and the

concrete and your eyes will carve  confusion  into  the

cracks of my tired flesh.

I will hold you  and  my  dilapidated brain will  convulse

beneath the electric shock of these new secrets.
I will hold  you and  hope your  wounds  melt into  blank

empty spaces in this warmth.

I will  hold  you and hope you will  hear my  silence  and

know its meaning.

I will  hold you and  hope you  will learn to love and live

in the truest parts of you.

I will hold you and hope that none ever hold you who are

not   worthy  of  the  largeness  of  your  soul,  do  not

respect its  worth,  who do not call it quietly into wide

open fields in which it can sing and dance and be free.

I will let go.

                                       . . .

You will carry the map of me the rest of your life.

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