It lives on a street
On a bitterly cold day
When two, peering above scarves
Meet with eyes of mutual suffering.
In the succoring of a woman
Whose skin, normally sallow
Flushes with pleasure
When some kind deed
Has been done for her.
When a co-worker,
Once only slightly regarded
Shows forth the rising of his being
Through the color of his eyes
Beautified by a shade of green
Not normally perceived as comely.
And often the slightest, subtle aching in the loins
Bespeaks in us a desire
To create again that which we find lovely—
A man’s voice
Or eyebrow of understanding
A woman’s lovely neck
Or curvature of breast—
The rise in the body for breath
When a poem is said.
And our many love affairs
Seemingly unexpressed or unconsummated
Live as a creation
Not measurable by us.
