Only now when I have found you,
do I understand the dry and angry
places where I’ve been,
understand why I was there,
and bless them for all that they were not.

Could I have failed to know you?
Two mewling and wet creatures
who may yet learn what eyes and hands are for?
Could I have failed to know your pulse and shine?
Failed to take what destiny provides?

Found? How “find” when I had no idea of what I sought?
Found? When all I had was all there was,
when you were not an image on my soul,
were no one else’s eyes, hands, words, or walk?
When the summer morning of your smile did not exist?

Not “found.” Run into. Crashed.
Walked full stop into a singular green maze,
been turned around from where I aimed to go,
walked backwards forwards into presence
whose name I’d never heard, whose eyes were mine already.

Do not respond too closely soon,
I am too new not — too fresh to — what?
I am too new and sensitive to touch,
to speech, I need new form of time
to fill each step, each stretching nerve.

I won’t yet be me again,
be good at being what I think is me,
though yearning for you comes.
Don’t even show you’ve noticed me,
not yet, not yet, go slow, this is our life.