So here we are, the naked lovers,
lovely, as we both agree,
with eyelids as our only covers
we lie in the dark, invisibly.
But they already know, they know,
all four corners, the night air,
the upright table and the stove,
suspicious shadows fill the chairs.
The tea grows cold; the cups know why,
although the reason’s left unsaid.
Swift must lay his hopes aside,
his book lies open, but unread.
As for the birds? I saw them flying
yesterday as, without shame,
they scrawled across the open sky
the letters spelling out your name.
As for the trees? Well, can’t you hear
what they keep whispering about?
You say it’s in the atmosphere,
but how’d the atmosphere find out?
A moth flies in the open window
on furry wings, it hovers first,
then soars above and swoops below,
and stubbornly hums over us.
Perhaps it catches what we miss
with its uncanny insect sight?
I didn’t see, you didn’t guess,
our hearts were glowing in the night.