How you got into my
thoughts, nobody knew.
The nervous quiver
of the first kiss.
The port for which we longed,
still playing the old love songs.
And a world in which
we both fit, are all possibilities.
You said, I write like Neruda.
I say, I write against
those dismal years,
those days before we met.
And your shifting body,
imaged in my fingertips.
A Wandering Poet 