to my wifeMatthew W. Schmeer
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.
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