We shall remain
Where they put us,
The ones who love us,
The ones who know we love.
There are a few who know you and I
Love, and we wish to lie
In bed together; they know it,
Because poet to poet,
We are writing what we owe
The other, in voices low,
Hiding beneath what our verses know,
You telling me, “I want to give you this,”
I whispering, “you already gave it to me!”
Our poems whisper because we cannot kiss.
Our language is almost there
In a kiss like wine, dry and rare.
Distant, imprisoned, only our love is free.
Not imprisoned, for we have lives
Better than most. It is those material miles,
The flesh of the wide earth,
The true obstacle,
Which prevents the physical—
You and I slipping into bed,
Great obstacle! Holy obstacle!
We loathe and love in separate regions,
Different day, night, seasons,
So the earth is the bed we slip into
As I kiss your face. Or pretend to.
Would we love if we lived next door?
I think we would. And more.
On your lips not one drop of rain
Would fall and not on my lips remain.
I saw your recent poem on a bed,
And you described perfectly
A love sexy, happy and sleepy,
The words hurrying into my head,
So I felt your poem was mine alone,
Your mind’s bed more real than my own.
