Like an old story’s need for detail
each time retold, the syntax twisting
through it like tails in water,
what’s needed now’s another timely lover
to make love as touchable as a tight curve.
Her syntax does the tricks: her animal parts
move beyond herself, you think, as you touch
knee gliding always to thigh, and wind
about the solid geometry of breasts.
If you also realize she doesn’t need me
when you come to her brain living alone
like a queen, and that you to her are only
another lover, remember even love obeys laws
of time and need, and like a simple wave
rises to its height, breaks, and is over.
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