Light clouded, a nighthawk cuts
across the last threads, as though what can be seen clearly—
your foot cupped in my hands, the growing veins
of tree limbs darkening above us—contains its own crude
light. Silence changes us without our turning
to know it happens in the other’s eyes: love,
a rich sadness we can afford the longing for.
Your look retreats in a haze of smoke.
I lift the arch of your pale foot to my lips.
Desire does sustain its hold. We are invented
by what we let pass through us.