I don’t have to look to know it’s a pair of lovers

Settling at the far end of my bench, inverse
Shim unsteadying the view—the fortress of stones,
The ragged pyre, the gloomy river unprepared

For sacrifice—and then a breeze shaking down the brush—
The ram sent by Michael. I hear their silence as one
Given over to the summer evening

The breath of a sunset, the last of its pink
Absorbed by the small cloud cupping the horizon
Like a hand smoothing the tousle of trees,

Then lifting to turn another page.