Crossings

My love for you

this time

is at dusk. There's a

concrete curb poured

on top of an asphalt drive, and I

step up from

asphalt, to concrete, and think of

the exact feel of you, if you

were in my path, and my next step

took me into you, against you, just where

my cheek would press on you, and my

legs against your legs, and myself

on yourself, and your warm breath without

a word, one robin we both hear, a

few cars gone by, a mass of

dark clouds to the south, three-quarters

moon and dampness in the cold, because

we're above freezing, we choose

to stand on the concrete, on top of

the asphalt, on top of the crust of

the whole world, pressing, hearing

most things, seeing

some things, feeling temperature, smelling as

much as you do when its this

cold, stopped in our tracks

pressing, with evening

falling around us, and

night coming fast, and

pressing together, for now.