Late Love

My love so late attending, feels alone
in my small Albuquerque home, except
as a grace hidden behind my eyes.

Too late as the years fly. One who is
dearer all the more, vivid in her praise
while I hear her voice from a distance.

She is an intimate warning in my
retrieval operation of a life lived with
little ceremony in a low light. This

love moves slowly, but at a harmonious
pace, just so, for my mornings when
I open the curtains to this new vigor,

a momentum in surprising ease
of composition. The poems with whatever
rightness, surprise me in a way that fills

age’s cavity with fresh earth in desire,
in speech on a revolving page, as I race
to hold it still. The fate of this surge

cannot be foretold, but her hourglass
measures the beginning and end of love’s
tapestry: the spin of youth’s old age.