yet another untitled poem in process

We were mad with desire,
wild with love.
Memory caresses me
on the cattail breeze
reminding me of who we were
back then.

We parked on the banks of the river,
hot summer nights, skin slick and hot
burning
consumed by youth, by need,
by the ceaseless rhythm
of the river.

We live now in the 'precious ordinary'
of our days,
our blood thinner,
the nights shorter,
the river a memory.

But the blood remembers:
a spark ignites in the dry rustle
of the cornfield.
Love burns in the hot night,
mad desire returns
like the days of summer.