I cannot tell you that last night in the exhaust-fume impatience
of nearly-stopped traffic
through which cars crept, linked
with short chains of light,the driver at my front failed for whole minutes
to follow closely the blue Buick in front of him,
stopped, in fact, entirely, while a thousand
engines idled in molasses-sticky Virginia heat.
I caught the fine, still cut-out of his face
as he leaned a little out the window, looking,
so I turned, too, and saw that I had missed in long minutes
of waiting: a bank of cloud like descending birds,
a great, bright raspberry moon,
and I was surprised into loving this man
as I have loved others -- ancient-eyed boys reading on benches,
crossing guards in white gloves, businessmen sleeping on trains
-- easily,as I have never loved you.
~Marisa de los Santos
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