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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