You do not speak about the sky
at evening time and the old highway’s
last offering of fire,
or the chance that love may still
embrace you at the sea’s edge.

You do not mention the jewelled
tower overlooking
the harbour, or those flameless rituals
repeating themselves
for whatever warmth they bring.

You do not utter a single syllable
about the man
who lies beside you,
the man who knows nothing
of your true desires.

You do not talk of the intimacies
lingering beneath the skin
of all that can’t be said,
or how I’ve been travelling
here to meet you since Eden blossomed.

You do not spare a thought
for the way the light gleams
on the bracelet
I saw you wearing
back in the room before birth.

But all evening, you quietly
fan and flex the hope
your present path is not forever;
all evening, your hands
are everywhere and you are happy.