For years, the habit of wanting you,
carried like something unnoticed,
lint in a pocket, or manzanita
seed waiting a fire-
you come to me
changed, an old photograph
blurred with motion,
the shutter too low to keep you the same.
After a while, the light, an old habit
between us, drains off:
simple to meet, to walk towards evening
in a park at the continent’s edge;
simple to talk
until conversation drains off,
a newly decanted wine,
and we’re left with the sediment dark
at bottom between us,
desire,
simple to say,
and all the decision pours out of my life,
leaving me buoyant, empty, to float
towards your hand.
