July 22, 1971
(I was 26)
Misunderstanding your soft shape
under thin summer blanket
stirring
and the delicate murmuring
dream
into which I so easily
slipped beside you,
my smoothest hand
drifted across the cover of
your possible curves.
I believed the cooling lie
of my warmth against your
thigh
and breathed your rhythms
in colored currents
flowing from each sigh.
Then as the first bird
called warning
into some distant morning,
you turned to deeper sleep
and I turned to philosophy,
hand stroking cheek
unshaved this week.
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