Since we’re not young, weeks have to do timefor years of missing each other.
Yet only this odd warpin time tells me we’re not young.
Did I ever walk the morning streets at twenty,my limbs streaming with a purer joy?did I lean from any window over the citylistening for the futureas I listen here with nerves tuned for your ring?
And you, you move toward me with the same tempo.
Your eyes are everlasting, the green sparkof the blue-eyed grass of early summer,the green-blue wild cress washed by the spring.
At twenty, yes: we thought we’d live forever.
At forty-five,
I want to know even our limits.
I touch you knowing we weren’t born tomorrow,and somehow, each of us will help the other live,and somewhere, each of us must help the other die. from "Twenty-One Love Poems", written between 1974-1976, later re-published and included as part of another collection written between 1974-1977, "The Dream Of A Common Language."
