In the amber of a late October,
altered by illness and a mauling from friends, we have come again to London, and come one to the other, in truth, it seems, for the first time in twenty-something years.
These are our days. Above us, white lines from Heathrow streak the sky and a silver airplane flashes past a tawny sun, its underwing turned gold. Ahead is Christmas. Outside the bang-blast of fireworks, the tread of traffic
dancing to the drum of what must be done. Not us, not now. In here, our clothes removed, our skin cells open, one to the other, once a day, we practice spinning love, while the stillness of the season holds us, bathed in the warmth of something more. It was you who led, as male desire is wont to do. Erect, unyielding, it cut to our truth. And I who thought of practice: that Buddhist word, that way to be, to being in the moment one is in.
So now we meet each evening – our passing and our coming life suspended – clothes off, upon a cushioned floor, each time, it seems, anew, each stroke the first, again, in hours that know just what they hold in this, our stilly autumn in these, our goldspun days.
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