(The Floating Poem, Unnumbered)
Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt minetender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting for years for you
in my rose-wet cavewhatever happens, this is.
