But a Date Would Be Nice

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They are in each other all along.

Still, I can’t help but think
how fine it would be to meet you
beside a river in summer when

the air is warm and the current
is cold and the grapes in the bag
are sweet. When the currents

and raspberries are ripened and dark
and the trail is long and the rain
that’s reported to fall does not.

Or perhaps to meet you again in a canyon
just before the rain does weave
its long diamond strands toward earth. Or

to meet you in the front seat
of my car. Or beside me on the couch.
How many beginnings we’ve had.

As if we could start again and again.
Which we do. We grow old, we are new.
Sometimes I expect I should be used

to it by now—this opening, this
opening again and again. This
pleasure in finding you here all along

in the layers of love which I wear
like skin, like fascia, like bones,
like what will survive when I am gone.


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