What’s Next

the red hot dash down the library steps

the furtive skirting of the street —
back driveways
alleys
the railroad tracks

the slipping into the woods
the meeting by the old foundation
the mossbed

the shirt lifted over her head and put aside
the mutual enveloping
the mutual shedding of all else

the moment
and then the moment
after the moment

the wondering if and when 
the moment will come again

and then the last moment 
weeks later —

what’s next

except the start of
the repetiton of this sequence
more public and more cynical
for years to come

until the moment itself

is corrupted as a source
of pure hope and joy — 

so then in monogamy we say
what’s next
and in polyamory we say
what’s next
and in celibacy we say
what’s next

missing the newness and raw fear
that lived in the center of joy
that drove us to bed down on moss
under the afternoon sun
after school
praying for no one to see