Somehow I know we are looking
out at the same moon tonight.
Two thousand years ago, Amaryllis,
I ditched these lines, used its light
to race over the open fields,
for an hour under your eyes.
Now I can only dream you inside this vine,
back an overgrown run of summers,
on such a still, moth-kissed night,
your shoulders oiled, tresses unskeined,
the secret finger to your lips,
slipping from the feast into the corn.
Weave me that myrtle-garland again,
call me poet as you drain the jug
of ruby wine you fetched out for us then.
We were just hours and villages apart,
but those are years and cities now,
and the moon lights the miles and miles.