After you’re gone,
I touch my legs, my belly,
run a hand down
over my cock.
This morning I’ve learned
the words
of an ancient language,
and now I am waiting impatiently
to say them again
without embarrassment.
At last, this is how
to explain the way
the left leg
holds everything together, the way
the right leg
slides against thighs
while the hands move
(apparently randomly to the casual observer)
over and under and into and around.
Afterward
there is joking.
There is more
than kissing,
as if a deserved blessing offered
more than a deserved share of hope.
Then the legs again,
the hands
again, and the tongues
that become involved
once words
no longer suffice.
You told me once and now it is obvious that
I have been dumb for years.
Poetry was sign language.
My tongue has been born again
into a new way
of saying
old, old things.
Dark Matter 