Poems on the Naming of Places: IV
We had the time, you see.
And September.
A month in itself like a lake.
And Wiilliam called it our occupation:
he followed with me
the dandelion seed, the thistle’s beard.
Have you ever known that?
The joint untethering of souls,
trusting entirely that the other
will not tug you back?
Shoulders turning in unison,
gradually voices
rising to the surface.
Don’t talk to me of marriage. Give me this:
no future tugging me back.