Our love wasn’t but this:
it left, came back and brought
a very far distant lowered eyelid
a petrified smile, lost
in the morning grass
a strange conch that our soul
tried persistently to explain.
Our love wasn’t but groping
silently among things that surrounded us
to explain why we don’t want to die
with such passion.
And if we have embraced hips, if we held
with all our strength other necks
mixed our breath with the breath
of that person
if we closed our eyes, it wasn’t but
that simple deep longing to hold on
to something in our flight.