I thought I could imagine, looking down,
The field had grown a little different from
The weight of us; the ground indented where,
Upon this hill, this grass—that blade still bent—
For just a kiss, we deserted all the world.
Looking up, I saw an open place
Less secret than the one that I remembered;
The eyes that would remark could see this spot
From an embarrassment of vantage points.
Our privacy had been a phantom thing.
Back then we hadn't cared who saw us, lost
To all the fields of view except our own.
I marveled at our heedless indiscretion.
I wished only to be there, exposed again.
2000; originally printed in Garden Lane.
Reprinted by permission of the author.