a backdrop and a reference point
as we made love with the window open
so that your cries and the cries of the birds
mingled the way our sweat did
and the landscape honoured our being there.

Being there -- yes, that was it
both in the world and in that particular place,
the self fusing with the other
and our words were holy.

I could tell this endlessly
and not exhaust the beauty I find there
though the twilight has no words to match this
so what do you say Mister Boatman--
what is your price
and when will we arrive
and where are the books on these deaths?

Beauty burdens and blesses,
is a cargo the boatman refuses to carry
on his own
but which I must for what I call
       my salvation