The Communion of Sighs

There was a moment

  without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,

    but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist

      felt more than seen.

      I was eighteen,

    my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.

  Expectation hung like a cry in the night,

and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.

There was an instant . . .

  without words, but with a deeper communion,

    as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;

      liquidly our lips met 

       --feverish, wet--

    forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,

  in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .

when the rest of the world became distant.

Then the only light was the moon on the rise,

and the only sound, the communion of sighs.