In my ideal conception, the lovers never speak.
I contrive every manner of impediment: abashed stutters,
corner them oppositely in crowded, catacoustical rooms,
blaring public squares,
hushed theater boxes,
hurry them separately on,
tie their tongues when they meet by chance,
allow them only
the conversation of the senses.
Like music, it makes no claims of truth beyond itself.
Its ways are the process of the world but writ intimately:
upheavals, scrapes and bites,
the ticklish precession of the poles,
their thrilling reversal,
and as with the hurricane’s eye, just the tease of a lash
renews the fray.