Four Poems

Still Life

Much though we love best
those rare intersections of time and space
where we are nothing but love's playthings,
caught, like two deer alerted in a clearing;
nothing but a sweet anonymity of flesh;
nothing but life's blessèd rhythm
loving itself through us -
two human bodies tuned to the whirring stars -

all this is almost nothing
without the small, quotidian gifts
which bridge separateness,
the small, habitual caresses which hinder fears,
the grace of small services rendered -
two bowls of blueberries and yoghurt,
...