you say, for the umpteenth time that day,
then guide my hand across the world’s face
in an old light of tarnish and spice.
And though I know it’s just a dream,
and only death waits me when I wake,
I want to get it right, sensing
that the ease you share with forces
ordering things out there
in this other life is more than anything
I can know, alone in my antique
sun’s scented glow, misperforming
whatever troubles me so
until it brings you near, in the musk
and Troy-bronze possibilities,
to show me once again how it’s done.