There was a lull, a break from bliss
when I turned to face the window
looking for all the world, you said,
“like I was composing a new verse.”
Even on our pleasure barge
there are lapses in understanding,
for this groping for words (I thought but did not say)
is not a gasp for air but a further plunging;
I stroke you with both tangible hands
and feet unstressed or thudding…
but “sorry, love” did seem in order
before the revels resumed. Or continued.
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