It was early. It was before love shifted back
its powers of separation. It was a late party.
After talking that leaves the memory upright
as fingers, in me ringing like a wine drinker's
long glass stem, in a kind of alcoholic music,
I must have been more than one bottle over:
I tripped and fell downstairs, fell onto our
tiny lawn. I didn't break! I lay there shocked
below the terrace. I shouted the stars were frost
on a black bonnet, how I was in love with you
and still in love with all our friends, the young,
sexually abundant shapes of them. My brain
registered the skin, the shoulders of imagined
lust, the summery legs of female arguments.
You, it was one of you, stood on the terrace
telling me to please shut up. It wasn't possible.
I was shouting. I was drunk. You had a bucket.
When I looked up I saw a woman of water
fall onto me. She was clean and cold and naked,
I lay under her, I was sodden and content.