It could have happened this way
in the field of dry grass that night
before the two-week rain began:
as the warmth opened like a waking hand
we entered, there could have been a tense muscle
and then refusal. You could have seen
a pair of binoculars a mile away
catch moonlight, and turned from the clearing
of trodden grass, leaving my open mouth and pants,
my shoe-lace-tangled indignance, everything,
implied, like the real meaning of a good poem.
You could have even accused me just now
of speculation at your expense, my stricken self
as hero. But there you are in the clearing
again, the sky adazzle with lenses
trained in all directions.
We open like waking hands
the warm night enters.
This Way
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