Truer

Sometimes I miss the old sadnesses

that made us truer—when we were teenagers

and it was all exposed nerve endings and the

miracle of sexual desire, when a smile

from anyone could break or recompose

our hearts. Older, we are reasonable

but somehow out of breath when it comes

time for the I love yous. Purposeful with

our passions as if they had some utility

beyond the way they felt on our tongues.

Let us articulate to our lovers the electricity

they produce, the way their skin tastes to us

like the drinking of honeyed wine. And if

we manage to may it never be the stuff of self

congratulation.

Remember

we have been forgetting the days when goodness

was not something built but something found

and happened to us like a car accident leaving

our bodies bowled over on the sidewalk,

staring without sarcasm at the untouchable birds

finding their way to more tender climates.