it's not - it can't be
yet somehow is
we laugh but shy, as if someone adult
might take it from us -
the moon perhaps, though she's allied
to lovers, traditionally - or some lurker,
hedged, patient, primed to spring
we both carry that fear bonewise,
running the body's rivers
seared in the deep red meat of us
how even if we get this moment that's not
but somehow is, somehow it isn't,
and won't, can't, mustn't be, or ever have been
