Eternal long white sheets, cool draperies,
forever and ever unending waves of noontide, moontide and dawn
fell with soft sounds, orchestral rushings, brushing silk and air and moth wings,
secrets down from tall beds, cold, thin clouds, down from the real, warm sun,
forever sun, where it has floated like a moon behind the veil,
where beauty has reflected in the rippled, glassy pools of promises and time
for so, so long, the tide has rushed and lapped, receded and moaned against the land,
the white, white beaches, the cool, clear rocks and moss,
the pictured scenes, the opaque whispers of a time to come,
the close, the near, the almost, the shiverings, the want restrained,
the forgotten time and the hopeless hope,
the hair that lay across shoulders, the some skin, the held hands,
the leashes for the dog in the alabaster coat, the shelved jar with a rush of blood in it,
the wind that told the first, withheld the last and ran while we ran after it.
All fell: a single infinite, impatient, instantaneous unhurried rush
of cloth and dress and wear.
There all of every inch and foot and dip and swell
and scent and sight and breath and lips and ears and hands and arms and legs
and touch and glance and lithe and long stood still and waiting.
Saw the sight, beheld the touch, embraced the real,
it all was there to be; I wept to her
as both our souls like stars collided and there lay,
burning until we were the brightest, only light.