The Roman Baths at Nîmes

In the hall of mirrors, nobody speaks.

An ember smolders before hollowed cheeks.

Someone empties pockets, loose change and keys,

into a locker. My God forgives me.

Some say love, disclosed, repels what it sees,

yet if I touch the darkness, it touches me.

In the steam room, inconsolable tears

fall against us. In the whirlpool, my arms,

rowing through little green crests, help to steer

the body, riding against death. Yet what harm

is there in us? I swear to you, my friend,

cross-armed in a bright beach towel, turning round

to see my face in the lamplight, that eye, ear,

and tongue, good things, make something sweet of fear.