Visit Number Three

I know nothing that is new,
but that your eyes have left:
is now a test?
was then a passing gift?
I know not what is new,
but that night has reft
all light from my eyelids.

May I waken your breasts,
arouse your legs, or
are you lost in rest?
yes, now's the obvious:
My mind is love-tossed,
deep in damp
woods
so empty of song, but
what love has left?

Nothing seems new:
a burning lake,
a cloud that turns,
your breath unfolds
from deep in your tiny death,
so I yearn and slither
my love near your hand.
(is this then a test?)
and only your fingers wake
to enclose me,
My hips shudder, I wonder
if under your eyelids
your eyes lie open.

Shall I move to slake
my growing thirst
with your somnambulant hand?
press lips to neck, press
penis to kiss your snow-white wrist
that flutters not nor shivers?

Is this your final gift?
Shall now I take
this remnant of your longing,
gone from your full awareness?
My love remembers the scent of you -
as flowers quiver with forgotten thunder
when seeing silent lightning
so too do I tremble
with each word you speak
in unspoken breaths.

Your hand gyrates excited,
my mind pulsates,
my love empties,
shaking in your now-sleeping hand,
And this now is not new:
this gift that is the present,
as now remembers all moments
you let my love express,
but knowing still you are not open
I wipe you clean,
your hand your hair your wrist,
and return you to your rest.

I know now what is new:
the word lost in words
unable to move, love swalloweed
by love and wakefulness.
My surging for you
shakes twilight from my eyes;
as a flower, wanting
to open, closes
when a stiff wind would rip its petals,
(red drifting onto white)
so you enfold
your passion
in the innermost of your bones,
so you enclose
your love
in the sleeping spaces of your mind.

I know nothing that is new:
The glowing hum of your skin
does not ease the emptiness
of a quiet winter night.
You give your gift of being,
yet being is but a deepening
of patterned light.
Quick now becomes past
and breaks the newness of the unnew moment
but slakes not the passion.
O I am so meager!
will this longing never pass
even when what is wanted
comes?