This hour of hours is not ours, but theirs,
mild-mannered lovers dancing to midnight,
throbbing, nobody thrashing, to the beat
in this airtight can of caramelized airs.
Like spoons in a drawer, forks not used in pairs,
they fit their bodies, feet to shuffling feet,
they kiss the mouth to taste, and not to eat,
their clothes a napkin none the worse for wear.
No! Don’t persuade me passion is the stronger
the closer but not closed when is the deal,
Or that it burns brighter when it burns longer,
Or that unconsummated love is ideal.
When dainty lovers usher in the wrong year,
we’re served morsels, though hungry for a meal.