And when we woke it was like nothing
Ever dreamt before this: wrist, neck,
The hollow behind the knee, your hair
Filling my hands, all of it while we turned
And turned until we were unforgivable,
Adamant with bark, as if a wayward god had come
Upon us, bewitching breast to breast, fingers
Still tracing a vein, a thigh
No longer intent on destination
But in the keep of one limb resting on another, breath
Lingering in leaves, at the edge of a road
Where we were once lost, your hand faithful
In its nest, your mouth on my mouth
Caught, our feet tangled, looking for earth.
Sophie Cabot Black teaches the writing of poetry at Columbia University. Her collection of poems, (1994), received the Norma Farber First Book Award.
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