Too slave to mule a word, I relapse
            into him as he into me,

and for brief breaths it was just us,
            bound, stupid stallions laved

in love, twisting into each other
            as he strokes then settles—he is watching

me, holding me there as the sun,
            familiar now of our mythology,

leans into the wicker of trees,
            casting pink and orange and amber,

casting what some have gossiped
            as wonder or a type of wonder

that makes the crows allay their blackness.
            This vein of wonder wanders as a stream

in his eyes when he comes suddenly and not so.
            Dusk is juvenile. He gets up

and silence slides down his back.
            I look out the window.