Telephone Poles

The lover and I, we know the scorching touch of hand

And of hangnails and glances

The lover and I, we know the involuntary rush of sweat glands

And of bleak gothic romances

I know the fair felicity of the skin, where it goes rosy

And cherub-like

I have brushed both palms against the surface

Of a coat, the color of lead

or coal

He has clung to my chest like a talisman

While we both thank God for

telephone poles.