I know I don't imagine it, this light.
We pour it back and forth,
my mouth to yours.
My hip—your hand.
Like webbing from the secret life
that pulses under this one—it leaks,
and in the sifting shine we blur. One star.
The light from which
enfolds a darkling world.
How does it happen, then,
that here we find ourselves
inside that poem again?—
the one in which the poet notes:
"This way we stand,
forever taking leave."
