We’d been kissing in the churchyard, on the bridge,
but our shadows on the park grass just after twilight--
yours a little taller but broader, mine morphing with the movement of my hair,
arms falling in natural extension to resolve in the hand of the other—
gave minds time to photograph the moment so I could write it later
to remind you how you looked to me in silhouette,
the painting of your solid hand immaterial on the lawn, projected
by lamplight (or tell me, was there a moon?).
I was afraid of you, of course; we looked too well-matched in grass
to falter, but your touch was of a handsome stranger
etching the night into memory in case all failures were former—
in case night stretched into night stretched into night.
I moved away to see the shapes change,
You pulled me close to see them meld.
I don’t remember shadows after that—
Just you whispering in me (or in my ear—do you remember?)
the soft laughter of nearby terrace diners, perhaps gathering to the spectacle
of alchemy that will be love.