The Thirteenth of Never

  Remember, the month. We were turning
  swine into pearls, or something,
  and you clapped a hand to my eye
  with all the fat of a smack.

  There was a season over your shoulder,
  as rusty as a dawn drawn
  screaming into conversation. Rain
  was drivelling from long nostrils
 
  of sky. You chafed my cheekbones
  with spatula hands, and pointed
  your words towards an invisible
  wriggle of hills. I made a moue.

  I traced your lips in the darkness,
  while you wrestled very tenderly
  with rhetorical questions. It was
  a wrench, but at least it worked.

  When we turned, we were so close
  that our edges blurred. The shadows
  under your eyes were mine, our hips
  one babble of bone, and the same

  threads of nerve embroidered our bodies.
  We reached across, and filched a fist
  of memories from the lower slopes,
  stole glimpses, instants. And suddenly

  the air was wild with fire, with flames
  drenching our face. We were wrapped
  in a cloak of blaze, a conflagration.
  We were soaked in starlight,

  in the sweet heat of a furnace.
  The past was a dance. Its quiet embers
  lit up the country for several furlongs,
  for new blue moons. The months, remember?

From the book Love Poems