The moon rises late and small tonight.
Lying in bed with you, in a dark grown calm, 
bodies satisfied, the turbulence of souls 
quieted like the hush which comes upon
the tropical pond at the lion’s approach,
I find it difficult to remember
what it was that bound us once.

We need so much, yet understand
so little of the important things,
like love and family, that we wrap them in 
a kind of honor, and call them mysteries, 
then drag our feet through them
as if they were the remnants
of a nearly forgotten religion
of which only the rituals remain.

So now, in darkness, we bless the cup 
and dip the bread, taking pleasure
in the motion, its antiquity alone 
reassuring. I wake up later,
in the night, and wonder why
you are beside me. When understanding
fails, memory is delinquent. A bit of moon
slips into view; for some forgotten reason, 
reassuring. The moon and you, this satisfaction, 
remind me of something which now I cannot grasp. 
I grope awhile in darkness, then pull
the blankets over us; we sleep
the sleep of ignorance. In our dreams
we peer into the cup, question the bread,