On a night such as this, 
with the windows open wide, 
in a stream of moonlight 
and the air warm as blood 
we find ourselves crawling toward something; 
tossing and turning, hip and flank churning, 
if we stop moving we will drown, it seems, 
yet the moon draws no closer. 

We come together briefly 
as if meeting out in the deep, 
kicking gently, careful not to drag 
one another down. 

Toward morning there may come 
troubling dreams 
as all around us countless feed. 
But until then, floating on our backs 
near the calm, warm surface of this marriage 
of water and air, 
there is the night-blooming 
fragrance of honeysuckle 
and we are buoyant and enveloped, 
uncertain where one ends and the other begins.

Bio: Tim Hawkins