to my wife

last night
the sex
was good
but not
as good
as when
we first
met, those
years when
our bodies
worked in
unison, two
small machines
pumping in
time, our
hearts bursting
against our
breasts, our
voices caught
in unmeasured
Os.

yet now
we move
as two
trees whose
branches scrape
against each
other in
strong winds,
whose roots
do not
entangle
but burst
above ground
for open
sky and
cool rain.

what I
am trying
to say
but failing
is that
our love
grows more
slowly
each year
but grows
nonetheless
and the sex
is only
as good
as we
think it
to be
and I
think it's
good
despite
what I said
to begin with.

and so
when I
reach
for you
in bed
or you
touch me
in sleep
our bodies
with their
middle age
wrinkles and
slow aches
must answer
the
unspoken
yearning
of flesh.