I think of the sad, side-long
embrace of fading moonlight,
a tragic arc of formless desire,
before the sun rises
and the last honeyed words of
midnight candy dissolves on
my tongue.The sharp tenderness of Night’s long sigh
leaves the drunken hawk moths
dizzied from delight.
The pollen is sweeter at this hour
the pollination, an untraceable translation.

All the craft is in the catching
of these moments; stumbling towards
Daylight’s warm grasp
there is nothing sweeter than a
Lover laid in night gladiolus

who does not know how to name
the crooks of your body but knows
that they are just the same:
who knows that morning is coming and
that you will collapse into yourself yet again
and does not rush to devour the unnameable:
who only whispers in no language at all
the nature of love as it comes to an end.

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