The last bus finds no passenger waiting
at my end of Twentyfirst Avenue.
Slate shingles of overlapping leaves block
the intrusion of the corner street lamp.
Without a breath of air to stir the shades,
when even old Who-owl is out of breath,
the black furnace of the night burns my eyes
with pale green fires pricking brilliant darkness.
Water, which is the body, trickles in
between our fleshes, prickly where we touch.
Ought I recall when locked in rutting grasp
the names and faces of any lovers?
All that remains to me is our parting.
Unrequited longing satisfies me
when compared to this carnival of flesh
and when home is my memory of you.