Too slave to mule a word, I relapse
into him as he into me,
and for brief breaths it was just us,
bound, stupid stallions laved
in love, twisting into each other
as he strokes then settles—he is watching
me, holding me there as the sun,
familiar now of our mythology,
leans into the wicker of trees,
casting pink and orange and amber,
casting what some have gossiped
as wonder or a type of wonder
that makes the crows allay their blackness.
This vein of wonder wanders as a stream
in his eyes when he comes suddenly and not so.
Dusk is juvenile. He gets up
and silence slides down his back.
I look out the window.