It was dangerous, there in the moat.
Your hands were confused,
or astride me, or both.
With each small concession
of your splintery wrists
you made a new island, a diptych,
a ditch. Grow me each Munich,
you said in my ear, two problems,
two pundits that we can commandeer.
I sighed out the lead key, the burnished,
the brass, and set them to marching
lest you test the latch - but
our irregular tension left your
hair filled with arrows, your
hands made sheet angels
as the bed grew too narrow.
Light broke the window
by pretending to be Spanish,
you held your front, saying I’ll keep
my distance, if you won’t vanish.
Still, my syntax would fail us, and
the waters do rise, and the moat,
our one sanctum, was too our divide.