Lost On All Things

We walked the hot
tarred roads at night,
we in our Alleghenies.
Under thrumming lamplight,
Moon Moths limped on ripped wings,
collapsed into powder.

My body was different then;
you could count the notches on my spine,
belly fecund, my hands lit from within.

We embodied what it was to belong to words,
disdained the limits of human love.

In that small moment,
--slow kisses without the aid of touch--
The heat of our mouths
exchanged nectar.
No need to move closer.

Now all I think about
are the mountains,
where sodden entrails
of fallen oak slip,
converge at guard rails,
at the nape of my neck,
where cold and ache
stand in furrows.

I picture you smoothing them out,
in declarations of ardor,
a modicum of ichor,
lost on all things.