love

Most poets write of loss and call it love,
today I kissed you and I lost the one who finds.
I followed your tongue, I waited,
I stripped my mouth of its hunger
and felt the bones that hold my face
and the heart that lifts them
to awake in your fair and foreign place
to find you waiting for me,
not to soothe or salve some wound
or to pull me out of harm,
but just to love me,
just to give me, just to share
that moist and moving thing,
a wisdom of accord and calm
so deep and unabashed
it exceeds even the Balm,
I at last abide, I bend to song of me
your tongue does silent sing.