What seems like another love life

ages ago, now, hence, layered, stratified like rock
that heart, clogged clean full of
liminal names, faces—
that backseat lothario pose, slide side
to side uneasy arm, up and over,
smooth—hold it—for

she holds eyes like silent frozen mornings
still, cold, blue—communion of
soft hard
that paradox life throws up like
old new birth from ground ground
ground, looking back, ahead

when all words crumble down dull
no luster in the echoing halls
all someday know,
when whimpers shake for warmth,
warmth never rising hot in faces, bodies
around, die alone we do, we do.