That night in August
we were yearners, Georgeann,
children holding hands
standing on Penn Street
looking up at our star
we had laid claimed to
and called
our secret trysting place.
Do you sometimes peer up
from your far angle
at our pulsing torch
through light years
to meet there,
or do you find me
still standing with you
on those warm red bricks, barefoot,
guiding you up through galaxies
to our far chamber
trying to tell you
incense burned there
and candles,
and from then on
it would be ours
to be together at
to carry out
our endless rites
of blessed quiet oneness?
