Love song without birds and flowers

by Bruce Spang

A rhapsody of whatever and never,
what has been and never been,
the slow rumination of memory
the faint glint of somewhere 
you and who he was were lasting 
in the whisper of the willing now,
turning of one body to another,
not asking if or why but touching the
Oh my and the kindred ecstasy
that rises only and needs no name.
It’s fine because fire never asks who
it consumes in its flame. It takes
absolutely you; so don’t ask
if and can it be: it does as it will do.
O body, let love be Yes—
it wants you to curl up next
to next as someone in no need
for metaphor because he is what is
and takes and gives what is given
and sleeps in the comfort of
it is so, of yes, of let it go.