There is no black bear here.
Only a man at sun light’s end.

In the room with the spread yoga mat
he is shaking the boughs
of his own desire so wildly close to
his quivering chest, your flesh
an orchard gulped into the dilated
buckets of his eyes.

You can’t remember his face, only
his long red dotted tongue, brown
magnolias on wallpaper, the hallways
a faint odour of apple crumble or
something reassuring like that.

The right amount of room
within the indecision of his arms. Don’t be
afraid of his muscular teeth: he is not dangerous,
just lonely. You can take care of him. It’s so easy
to undress, curl together, become
the same warm animal.

Quiet his bear-like
panting, let his unshaven chin
forage on your jaw, think of the man
who said he loved you in front of Shelley’s tomb
the way he is not
coming back.