Cold comfort (How cold my toes-tiddely-pom…)
to read you when I’d rather have you —
to have you, god forbid, then leave you.
Lying here, alone (And nobody knows)
surprised by love — that little time, sweet
poised measure, one table-spoon of, say it,
nectar, taken by a humming-bird in sips —
for us, one gulp of sudden joy.
Reading you, alarmed at every turn you take
each time you pass along my nerve ends’
reckoned memory of things we’ve never done,
I want to shout, “Stop writing over all the moments,
undo this cursor, cursed time’s sharp quill —
oh, dance with me, stand still.” This hold
you hold me in should never end— it never will.