Myopia in the Afternoon
What landscape is this? My flesh curving
over your bones, pectoral swell
under my cheek, darkness of tangled fur,
and beyond that, the wet
angled branch of a tree, and beyond that,
something white, something pale blue.
Call it tree and window,
sky and snow.
But what this is, so close at hand, I cannot say.
This landscape of pleasure, where we fit together
this way, that way, it seems is nothing
I know, knew, can know –
only the rise and fall of breath,
the slow shifting of light on flesh,
and what has been, and what will come to be,
and here between them,