The Bath, The Journey
It is very late.

  Before you leave for good I dream
  I returned to Mars where we’d been before.
  I came to a cluster of rocks we’d arranged.
  Flat rusts and browns, they rested
  on their sides, circles cut from their centers.

I am drunk and wrecked, crying in bed
as you say you have finally seen
that I am not a woman. What comes
first is the clear relief of being known.
But desire trips us up — how I want and you don’t.

  Beyond the rocks stood the strange world
  of red dust, canyons and clouds,
  and it was wrenching to see our work,
  here in this since-unvisited place, but so
  lovely that any sadness swiftly passed.

In the morning shower we wash each other briskly,
brother cats in the wet air, and then we part.