Dusk

Dusk

In the perfect dusk
under the lace of oak and maple leaves
that domed the city street
and shaped the gauzy light its gaps let through,

we played punchball, running bases,
two hand touch and raced and raged
at one another,
breathing harder in the broken light
than we ever would at love

and thought it was the game,
the body’s test and proof and,
when we were minor gods,
the victory that moved us,
made us feel our hearts
as though we held them in our hands
and unbelieving watched them,

but know now, looking back
from where the dark unshaped
unhindered thunders in,
someone whistling from a porch
would call us home, it was the dusk.