Or consider the way we twine our hands
Under the wooded night air
So tight as if they might be chopped at wrist
By an up-sprung axe unshackled from the bleeding roots.

Or the way you search my face as you kiss
Deep enough to know what makes
The leopard's blood leap from spot to spot
And lean back, wounded cub, shaking at the thought
This was the rumoured future
We forfeited
At assigned gatherings and waiting halls
Arrivals and departures
Where the spirit balked
And braced without hope.

And we walk the back alleys

Of this accidental town,
Past darkened doorways
And burning windows,
Between parked cars
And empty little restaurants

From future and past
Return

By land, sea and air
By sleight of hand
And turn of phrase
To this wholly present

Moment of grace.