in a cloud of the past. It still occurs
in reruns projected upon the expanse
before me, her flesh, and mine on hers,
times on the porch, the couch, the stairs
to our bed in the house that was our chance,
where now I see two luminous blurs,
two breath-rivers’ confluence. It stirs
a fresh wonder, time-water’s happenstance,
her flesh on my flesh, mine on hers.
It was, is no more, but reappears—
our spirited blunder, now without substance.
That’s how I see us, two luminous blurs
like galaxies passing through one another,
the light that’s left crossing the distance—
her flesh on my flesh, mine on hers,
a oneness of two luminous blurs.