The arguments against restraint
in love, in retrospect, seem quaint;
I would have thought this obvious
to you, at least, whose serious
pursuit of intellectual grace
is not less equal to your taste
for all things richly formed. No good
will come of what we force. I should
be hesitant to say how long
this shy devotion has gone on,
how days beyond account have turned
to seasons as we’ve slowly learned
to speak a common tongue, to find
the world’s erratic text defined
and stabilized. I should be vexed
to mention time at all, except
that, even as I write, a blear
October dampness feels like fear
externalized; I number days
in lots of thirty—all the ways
we have for counting breaths, so brief,
beside the measures of our grief
and joy. So let me obviate
this cold chronology and state
more simply what I mean: it’s sure
enough, the grave will make obscure
whatever fierce, light moments love
affords. I should not have to prove
by metaphysical displays
of wit how numerous are the ways
in which it matters that we touch,
not merely with our hearts; so much
depends upon the skin, dear bones,
with all its various, humid tones,
the only barrier which contrives
to keep us in our separate lives.