In some distant future we are in our kitchen
Which is brown-- bricks and old cabinets
And cigarette smoke filtering out through the
Windows with their brown, brown frames--
And Marvin Gaye is asking what's going on, and
I am chopping vegetables, filling the room
With the smell of browned onion, browned garlic.
We are talking about books, or ego, or music,
Or I am lucky enough to be hearing about
Your new idea: a poem, a shop, a program.
In some distant future your eyes are
On my bare legs, your taste is in my mouth,
And my hips remember the greed of your hands.
You tilt me, tint me, toward monogamy,
Toward the possibilities of your skin and dark eyes.