methow grist 2011-2014 archive

First Love

I remember you,
Remember my intoxication
With the smell and taste of you
Underneath the thick, hot air
Of the canvas tent,
Every night,
Purging the space between us 
In the dark.
And I wonder now 
How I ever let you go, 
As if by holding on to you then
I could somehow be there still,
The tips of my fingers
Tracing your soft topography,
Two travelers,
Our hearts beating like drums
The discovery
Of a new land.

From David Asia's online collection,
“Conjugating the Verb To Be:
The Poetry of Time and Place”


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