THEY will tell you that it will get old, mon petit chou
that you will watch me
on the front porch, reading
and abruptly, out of nothingness
you will say, to nothingness:
she has cinders in her eyes
her hands have been in the sun too long
her plum mouth is wilting.
I will be reading
my once full lips moving noiselessly:
“And loved the sorrows of your changing face”.
And looking up, I will find you looking
your two days beard arousing in me
flutters of early afternoon and
the snapshot of
your chin upon my knee: against the dining room chair
of your lashes, quivering wings at my thigh
and I will think, oh he does
and I will be
ripe with gladness
and you will watch this happen
and you will think
who are they anyway
that is how dusk will find us.