Here we are, naked lovers,

beautiful to each other—and that's enough.

The leaves of our eyelids our only covers,

we're lying amidst deep night.

But they know about us, they know,

the four corners, and the chairs nearby us.

Discerning shadows also know,

and even the table keeps quiet.

Our teacups know full well

why the tea is getting cold.

And old Swift can surely tell

that his book's been put on hold.

Even the birds are in the know:

I saw them writing in the sky

brazenly and openly

the very name I call you by.

The trees? Could you explain to me

their unrelenting whispering?

The wind may know, you say to me,

but how is just a mystery.

A moth surprised us through the blinds,

its wings in fuzzy flutter.

Its silent path—see how it winds

in a stubborn holding pattern.

Maybe it sees where our eyes fail

with an insect's inborn sharpness.

I never sensed, nor could you tell

that our hearts were aglow in the darkness.


They made love among the hazel shrubs

beneath the suns of dew,

entangling in their hair

a leafy residue.

Heart of the swallow

have mercy on them.

They knelt down by the lake,

combed out the earth and leaves,

and fish swam to the water's edge

shimmering like stars.

Heart of the swallow

have mercy on them.

The reflections of trees were steaming

off the rippling waves.

O swallow let this memory

forever be engraved.

O swallow, thorn of clouds,

anchor of the air,

Icarus improved,

Assumption in formal wear,

O swallow, the calligrapher,

timeless second hand,

early ornithogothic,

a crossed eye in the sky,

O swallow, pointed silence,

mourning full of joy,

halo over lovers,

have mercy on them.