It used to bug you
that my muse browned out
when you moved in.
Have you forgotten the daily epic
we were roughly drafting
that new Eden of a May and June?
It still dazzles me recalling
my rush of blood
when you came nude to play.
First bra, then briefs
my bedroom Botticelli,
arising from your sea
of naked candle flicker.
The poems shape again in me.
My tumescent muse of recollection
numbing the bite of separation.
2/20/75
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