We'll meet again when this world's tumbling
is stilled and your bright curves that tremble
me now are mixed with the dust of all things
that since time's start have fallen into darkness.
We'll meet as motes incorporeal and unconscious,
a dull dance it will be, without eyes to see
your curled hair tossed against the melting moon,
without ears to hear your sweet voice chime,
without fingers to travel your smooth envelope.
I am here perfect in my imperfection,
you are here with me. Only fools hesitate
to mingle dust before dark comes.