In time, lovers are places. You are hills
and horses at dawn, Mexican cocoa,
startled lizards, stars that for once looked hot.
Clear as the moon, you were Scheherazade,
turning us from the dry sameness that kills
as I watched your body, timing the flow
of our short story, for you were the plot,
the moment, as you compared love to God.
The horses died, they didn't get to know
that there are other places where the cold
remains cold, where at last they could forget
to watch for cactus, where eyes can stay wet;
never found out they would get slow and old
and then could die in a desert of snow.