New Growth

The afterthought of lust

floats like a cloud,

sets off the smoke detector,

but only for two weak cries:

Fie-yah! Fie-yah…

fading like the memory of moans,

They are there in the dark, lurking,

pointing fingers at me,

all the past abortions of the heart,

the living and the dead accuse me with dried up roses.

My eyes stare at the ceiling, your breath is warm at my side.

I do not have to acknowledge the others if I don’t want to—

if I can turn to you with hope and see the same in your eyes.

You become a clear sky

a sky without a cloud to define its infiniteness.

You are breezes and summer rain and brilliant sunshine

and I am new growth.