One takes the position of observer.
Exclude the body. Except one's hands
and genitals at times, and the other's

body—these are observable. Eyes,
lips, etcetera. Notes are kept
in the neuronal archives—lines

and lines inked in the shadow of events
—the rise of those breasts in the shadowless
light through the shades, even the blessed

glide of one's fingertips over the lower
ledge of the other's ribs.... This,
the observer's stance, even in bed, is

permissible, valid. Though it leaves
the darkness unsaid. Another position takes
one's own body's invisible traffic

in—the heart's reckless speeding,
shots and cries up from the neighborhood
war in the abdomen, the seething

police in their secret upstairs apartment
blinds, spies from the rival cadres
sneaking block-by-block down the spine

—so much in darkness! O, the sparks
in every plexus, covert fires
in the hovels of the chest, muzzle blasts

in the broken windows of abandoned wishes
—desire's unrecordable stars,
love's flashing interior constellations.