Had We Nothing to Prove

Had we nothing to prove

we might have leaned all night at that window,

merely beside each other,

watching Peel Street, wrought-iron gates

and weather vanes, black lace of trees

between cautious Victorian silhouettes;

but there were obligations, the formalities

of passion; so we sealed the shutters

and were expedient in the brevity of night;

reading with empty sockets moonlight in dull hair,

softness to chafed thighs;

both of us anxious and shaking the night,

with all my arm, she with fingers and gentle;

no hope for silver leaves in the morning.

And always a glance for the brightening windows,

a suspension of breath for the hearing of birds

and incantations to the sun

which stirs in dust behind stone horizons.