What Must Go Unsaid

If I had a moment alone with you,

we’d lie under a sun-threaded maple,

the full lengths of us not touching.

I’d listen as you read

Hoagland, Williams and Oliver,

Rumi and Contreni-Flynn,

drown in the sound of the words

in your mouth, the hum of your

voice filling your chest.

After an hour, you’d read

Ciardi’s praise of the Snowy Heron,

my delighted mouth would find yours.

Originally published in Decompression Poetry