Necropsy of Love

If it came about you died

it might be said I loved you:

love is an absolute as death is,

and neither bears false witness to the other--

But you remain alive.

No, I do not love you

                hate the word,

that private tyranny inside a public sound,

your freedom's yours and not my own:

but hold my separate madness like a sword,

and plunge it in your body all night long.

If death shall strip our bones of all but bones,

then here's the flesh and flesh that's drunken-sweet

as wine cups in deceptive lunar light:

reach up your hand and turn the moonlight off,

and maybe it was never there at all,

so never promise anything to me:

but reach across the distance of tonight,

and touch the moving moment once again

                  before you fall asleep--