Lovers always meet each other twice.
First, in animal excitement, pupils wide,
Stamping and pawing and rubbing their sides,
They leap into each other’s mouths; it’s nice.
Later, if they continue consuming each other,
A day comes when their hands are on the same handle
And they turn the wheel together, humbly,
And their eyes, once wild and hungry, grow tender.
It is this tenderness that holds the baby
In the womb; the womb that’s made of tender netting.
It is this tenderness that weaves the nest,
That tells us “yes” instead of “maybe,”
That gives tonight’s moon the light it’s shedding.
It is in this tenderness you and I may rest.