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.