Our bodies turn this closeness into speech,
a wordless talk, an alphabet of touch,
its syllables all colors like the wreaths
of plum and vine around our coffee cups.
We yield such surge of sweetness each to each,
refine the thickened urgings of desire,
that now through our once awkward flesh we reach
an absolute blue, like brandy fire,
and enter one another on its flood
that moves like heavy sugar's weightiness
to feed the royal purple of the blood
and disappear in gravity of rest.
If you've any comments on his poems, Barry Spacks would be
pleased to hear from you.