At night beside you I dream of ordinary things:
late summers in June, the forgotten fields,
the fading old light of the stars.
You feel too deeply, you tell me after
you have undressed me in the dim light
of lamp and window, kissing my collarbone,
my neck, my navel.
How is it that people come to hold
power over other people?
Beauty, maybe. Like the women
in your stories who you loved and lost
and loved again. Who left you as you
sometimes left them–tearing through the heart
in all those years before I learned exactly
how to kiss a man and where.
You tell me that you hesitate
to use the word love, and I think of my
and my boots by the door. I think that I am not like
the stars that refuse to be forgotten, or even the pale,
quiet moon that returns again each night. No,
I am the field where they keep the extra
bales of hay, constant, endless as
dirt itself. These are the great metaphors
I invent beside you at night while you sleep
and I wonder from where my sadness comes
and goes, and why it is too much to want you
inside this small and fragile world.