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
(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
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
. . .
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.