CALL IT LOVE
Even while he lay, stern-browed and static
on the bed, rejecting death
those of us still standing
in the hushed room
saw his arms become more shapely
and the dark hairs starting their undarkening
as moonlight flooded the window
and moved up his body until it touched
the tip of his chin.
Soon we knew she had come a long way
to meet him.
From a long night napless and cold.
Daringly her hips moved on him;
his toes took on her blue chill and curled.
Then the shadows in the hollows
of his face softened, and his breath slowed.
—from Rattle #16, Winter 2001