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.