We are in a second language when we
meet.
We seemingly converse that way.
We use discovery as an invitation to
share,
to cast shadows and refer to light.
We talk ourselves down from
out-of-time union,
making love, though unremembered from
other lifetimes,
draws us together, recognizing our
selves as clues.
We only share our inseparable
unknown,
since neither of us names it
straight away.
We fall down in our particulars,
wrestling with each other
as if getting one up over the other
is comedy.
Yet we have our own unravelings,
held as private,
with unquestioning innocence shared
through
clumsy unconscious deliverances.
We discuss our physicalness, sipping
ourselves
at each other, pooling our auras,
commoning our skin,
ingesting our interwoven thoughts as
conversation.
What we do is time bound.
Who we are to each other, is
timeless.
Self-consciousness like our clothes,
is baffling to our nudity of true
existence.
We are love, not distracted by the
audience
that we profess to each other,
to give each of us in this moment in
time,
ourselves with adequate surface and
cover.
When we do together, as our second
language,
we naturally are from beyond
what desire could demand . . .
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