I wonder if what she means is fully known?

I want to be known by the cabinet of your being—

its zenith of laughter and its burdens that flutter

towards me. Terrance writes that “making love

to yourself matters more than what you learn when

loving someone else” but I’m not sure he’s right.

I prefer the nugget of otherness, the scuff of your

thought; the simple anatomy of two lyric selves.

What would Rilke say about lovers in a pandemic,

alone, from his borrowed castle, pacing the halls

after midnight muddling the cook’s dreams?

Unable to sleep or pray there’s nothing left for us

but to bring our refuged bodies together. Not a departure

from the day exactly, just a distilled thimble of pleasure

of scent—like the ancient colognes in the Musée du Parfum

in Paris—alive and animated within us; still waiting, still wanting.