"Avalon," by Guy Gavriel Kay
From p.p. 36-37 of Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay:
Avalon
'But we both knew this long ago.'
We did. The blood has ways.
Veins and arteries
communicate beneath the skin
(though I have been so careful
not to touch, you not to touch).
Still, following your eyes
away into the grass,
the question in our hesitation
is like a needle
in this downtown park,
or like sorrow
threaded (like a needle)
through desire:
what begins with us?
Among the babies and the derelicts,
mid-afternoon, a Wednesday,
caught in the rush of things,
leaves racing each other
to be green, you are
with me in a stillness,
arms around your legs,
chin on your knees,
but eyes on my again
and knowing, long ago,
what I knew long ago.
The young sun slants
from behind me,
finds your hair.
I watch you make shadows
with your hands: cool traceries,
places to hide, promises.
In this light we lay claim
to each other. You will be
here beside me on the grass
until the sun goes down in Avalon.
Avalon
'But we both knew this long ago.'
We did. The blood has ways.
Veins and arteries
communicate beneath the skin
(though I have been so careful
not to touch, you not to touch).
Still, following your eyes
away into the grass,
the question in our hesitation
is like a needle
in this downtown park,
or like sorrow
threaded (like a needle)
through desire:
what begins with us?
Among the babies and the derelicts,
mid-afternoon, a Wednesday,
caught in the rush of things,
leaves racing each other
to be green, you are
with me in a stillness,
arms around your legs,
chin on your knees,
but eyes on my again
and knowing, long ago,
what I knew long ago.
The young sun slants
from behind me,
finds your hair.
I watch you make shadows
with your hands: cool traceries,
places to hide, promises.
In this light we lay claim
to each other. You will be
here beside me on the grass
until the sun goes down in Avalon.