In this suburban prefab home,
the ordinary catches one's eye:
a dog, a child. Snout
pressed against her back,
he nudges her.
She yelps with delight.

There must be a name
for moments like these,
when gestures cross,
needs interweave.
A term to call that pause
when the goldfish and I peer

through the bowl. Perhaps these behaviors
date back to Zeus. To Venus
on her scallop shell, her hair
still tangled with the sea, or Leda
inside the Swan, that fiery
blur of leg and wing.

Here there are no
wild joy rides,
no kinky midnight
brouhahas. Nevertheless, desires
converge—a houseplant, a cat,
share a corner of light.

These mutual acts are our only proof.
Scattered like empty beer cans,
they're souvenirs from that Fabulous Age
when the universe hosted
an open house, forms
mingled like drunken guests.