Interment

Analects of our time duck in the eiderdown,
fearful of facing me. At an alehouse, the other
night, a minute after eons makes me realize
that must have been another me. I recall it
was difficult to keep pace with your eyeballs.
Immersed in your essence, it was attributed
to inquisitiveness. I wonder how your half
-moon consumed me like Einstein sifting his
subject. Loving was loving all of you: So what
if it was the shape of your lunula?