At puberty he climbed

onto her porch. He could barely

be seen. His dark pullover and slacks

blended with night’s foliage,

melted into the late hot symphonic poem

that was that evening’s music.

His heart beat

like a gazelle’s.

He wondered if it could be heard

not merely on the other side of this wall,

but across the city as well,

and in airplanes overhead.

He was filled with adrenaline,

and was afraid that he glowed.

He was like David

on the rooftop, experiencing

the extraordinary stirrings of love,

observing Bathsheba for the first time.

Now his eyes struggled to pierce

through all these layers

of reality: through glass, past half

closed shades and venetian blinds and curtains.

He was like a second

story man with a Star

of India in his hands.

Before she turned out

the light, he could see her twirl,

brightening her room like a fiery torch:.

he was so certain

she burned

with that same aboriginal need

for him as he then had for her.