This one was sent to me many moons ago, from a guy I met online:
Something
1.
Somebody skulking in the yard
stumbles against a stone, it stutters
across the dark boards of the night
and we know. We know
he's there. We kiss
anyway. This
is not a pleasant story.
2.
And time loops like a woodbine
up into the branches
of new seasons, and two towns away
a man who can no longer bear his life
takes it, in the thick woods.
The police know.
And we now -- since no one tramples again
the grass outside our window --
he is our lonely brother,
our audience,
our vine-wrapped spirit of the forest who
grinned all night.
3.
Now you are dead too, and I, no longer young,
know what a kiss is worth. Time
has made his pitch, the slow
speech that goes on and on,
reasonable and bloodless. Yet over
the bed of each of us moonlight
throws down her long hair until
one must have something.
Anything. This
or that, or something else:
the dark wound
of watching.
~Mary Oliver