Far back before the sun
made any sort of difference,
and the icicles hung like knots
in the light-grains that housed us,

I was unafraid to take your hand,
unaware of the future we unzipped
like a winter coat in late March,
thinking not so much I was touching you,

but somehow touch, and thus entering
some kind of experience. But it was remarkably
just like any other object, for something
with so many nerve endings.

Even your eyes, glowing in the halo
the sun praises from the atmosphere
in a still and timeless ring of dawnanddusk,
spin through it like a pair of fading globes.