In the years to come...

In the years to come, we will meet like this,
three feet apart, quiet,
in the deepest stillest forest of the world.
The city rises its bright needles to the haze around us.
You walk out from between them,
your arms swinging loosely
like a hundred naked light bulbs out of the dark.
I hear only the rushing by of traffic.
I feel the soft swell of grief roll again in my gut.
When the hand extends,
I recoil; I want no accidental brushing
open of the deep holes, not now,
when I can no longer place this hand
where I will on my skin.

I will give you your smile before I turn.
Then the great tent of sky collapses,
the leaves fall at once; again,
whether I close or open my eyes,
dark holes blind and dance.