To His Dear Friend, Bones

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.