On That Warm Night

oh, how you held me on that warm night,
in the gardens with the ancient trees
draped in Spanish moss,
until I knew no more what held me
your arms or the darkness

oh, how you spoke the dark words of your love
your mouth against the hollow of my neck
that spot of sweetness where life pulses,
eager and frightened,
beneath the elegant florals of my perfume
(Valentino, forever, my darling)

how I cradled your head in between
the captive bird in my chest and my bare arms,
white swan necks,
and how I loved your warmth,
underneath your exquisite dinner jacket,
and let you breathe me,
and offered myself to be breathed in

photo by Philip Gould/CORBIS

(noises reached us from the terrace as if
from an entirely different world
of strangers,
well-dressed men and women,
with their champagne and their music)

how our fingers entwined
against the rough bark of the oak tree
like roots of Spanish moss
hoping for an illusory shelter

how our lips sought the very essence
of the universe,
wildly, gently until
it was not in the galactic abysses
that we found it
but in our blood

oh, how we trembled,
how we laughed,
how we died

how impetuous we were