the time that it takes us

the time that it takes us
to unfold
beneath blankets
is the length of ages

children to bed
dogs restful and snoring
the cats in the kitchen
finally abandoning their chase

the night now is a
quiet thing
laid over us -
a coverlet of calm

we both have equal wants in
the darkness; his greater
than hers is
the old myth

passion is something
to do with
the heart and the loin
in man and woman equally

it radiates from
an ancient place:
the tendrils of that old joy
never stop seeking

this man makes
a move with a hand
to breast
and you awaken

this man's lips
find the shoulder
and the triceps and the
rib behind flesh

a delicate kissing of
curves
your head turned away
coy to my touch

the arousals are
problematic of course:
the din of the day
pressing back

the invasions of
the domestic;
the cries and the wails
of all those boorish bosses

old lovers
are not young lovers who
can find heat in any place:
in parks or a dark bar

we too were pilgrims
once in a lush green
land of hot forests
and milk white rivers

the adventure was
made in the hunt
for the jewels in
each other's pockets

we old lovers must leave
the familiar paths
we've furrowed through each other's
earthen networks

and go blindly
into thicket or thorn
if we are to find that
fresh spring

this man's hand
is holding yours
my lover's, while
the other is on an adventure

the risen flesh of the neck
the breath of the woman
the slow descent into
focus

i made love to you once
filled with a fever
in a parked car on the side of
a road

with the growl of the
passing cars and the hum of the
engine and our breathing
becoming a certain symphony

what we were
is not what we want
what we want is
to be engorged fairly

to not deny our
time in growth
or lament or call
for past days

we're no less
lovers in love today
nor are we dry leaves
in a forgotten forest

the baby stirs now
and the flow slows
to a deliberate mechanical
and then altogether stops

we hold our breath
and listen; she sputters,
whines; and the walls we've
brought down are rebuilt

you look at me and sigh
and i sigh
and we hold hands
our bodies lit and infused

somewhere, young lovers
are sinking into
the old immersion and
believing more than they know

out there across
fields and forests
in their uncomplicated
lives touching and unblocked

not aware that they
are pilgrims just once; that
elation of discovery fades and
that they must work the land to thrive

the baby snores
now, and this man's hand
finds the folds, fingers trip down
a familiar fanning alluvial

and you turn your head away