When your eyes returned to me
I had forgotten that I opened to them
the way a dress slides off a bride
on her wedding night.
So many years have done
the things years do, and we—
well, we let go sometime
in the blur of the Tucson airport
in the summer of 2000,
when you were dressed in weeping
and I was simply leaving.
And now this. Your brown eyes
opening to my opening,
my body standing here like
I own it, or am the master of it.
But they know, your eyes,
that when they land on mine
the only way I can step is towards.
