What did we lose in those primordial moments tossed in sarmassation,
living in a glass house? I touched your inner comments then, judging
me to be too big, expanding to fill the volume vacillation
in those early times for which no vessel seemed adept and yet grudging
our ballooning identities in a life just coming — just coming to a boil.
So you revived your enduring interest in geology, cast a few specimens my way:
I must agree, among us, you are without sin, partly peridot, mostly soil
too fecund for my own hands, too tender to palpation, a well-shaded boggy quay
bespeckled with evening emerald, lit upon only to sink further than ever.
The walls are clear, the glass fogged: we are our only mirror. Nevertheless
our moon spied our lovemaking as did the neighbors, the sparking of new endeavor
like a fire in the desert. We had to provide our own fuel to escape that contest
in a greenhouse overrun by potent pleasure gasses;
I knew you’d rise to open skies for those autarchic desert passes.