We had secret meetings with the moss at night for our breastbones

Were cathedrals of desire seeking release and consummation from

Hidden framed emotion.  No one knew of our lover’s hideaways.

Don’t bother for poets to give full disclosure for these trysts; they

Save them up to be placed as windows in the house of poetry, so that

Lovers of poetry can be voyeurs to these secret lovemaking places.

Even if the place is known, the time of the tryst is withheld lest we

Are able to triangulate and find the coordinates of their love feast;

For secrecy sake our lover’s delight is bound in their own abundance.

Everything about love seems to be a secret; the secret kiss is stolen

In the tunnel of love; affairs of the heart only seem to come to light

When they become affairs of the court and large settlements are made.

Perhaps these places remain unknown because lovers have been exiled;

For this, the paupers and lovers wake up playing the flute of gratitude.

Lover’s books are always open to too many perusing inspectors.

Butterflies, seeking the nectar of the hidden buddleia bush, spend much

Time on its location; perhaps Hernando’s hideaway is where our lovers

Get so many butterflies and we drink the nectar from their secret love.

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