I.

II.

You didn't know about
love but wanted to.
He knew more but not 
by much. Together 
you played hide-and-seek,
truth or dare, children
still, in quickening adult
bodies. Then, high
up on a forest
hillside trail, it happened:
all geek and clumsy
gawk, he grabbed your hand.
Red-tailed hawks, wings
beating hot blue air like
hearts in wild cages,
screamed above your head.
Matter had met itself
and changed the world.
He registered the
shockwave with a sigh
while quietly undone,
you kept walking. 

Watching The Lover
and stories later,
you met the girl who
thought herself immune
to love again. She
wore an old fedora hat
and let a rich man
lead her unresisting
into the back of
his limousine. They stared
out separate windows,
each bearing traces
of every wound, every
shame that bound them.
Love—its premonition—
emerged in hand
dance raptures neither
watched. Their fingers
laced, she closed her eyes
as if to hear the 
sacred roar of flesh
commune of the profane.