It may have been that day, in Amsterdam,
where the streets are red as poppies
and never deem they hurt —
this is not sex’s affair —
it may have been that day
that I fell
and lost track of myself,
seizing what Love
had to say,
when I saw clear
tears of Desire
rolling down
your cheeks,
sitting naked
on this chair
in the morning light.
It may have been that day, in the city of Sex,
that I lost track of the sky,
the forgetting,
the holy innocence
of those who were never
And I wanted the earth to stop
— it had to stop,
before the star
of our being together
and the clock within it
moved out of sight.
But it was not Time’s affair,
Desire is fleeting
as tears,
it was just
the wrong city,
too rose
for flame,
too flat
for faith
see what the dove
had done to me—
when she returned
from the land
with her red wings of neon.