You walk in the wet grass,
in the cold, wet
November night. Bare feet
shrink, toes curl. You walk
through the tight mist
of not yet snow. You
and I. Silently

we kiss. The moon peeks.
The neighbors wait.
We hide ourselves
in the damp.
Under the evergreens,
a grove of evergreens,
we know warmth.

You thrust, I thrust.
No light can reach
the center of our touch.
The mist seeps
into the ground.
We burrow like animals.
We are the animals.

I talk and you hush.
Words aren't enough
to hide the dirt. We roll
and wash on the grass.
Each of us.
The cold wet grass.

A November night
when bare feet touch.


� 2004 by Tara Birch