The stars know everything—how we toiled
over every piece of furniture we own—
the mohair sofa with its button tufts,
the dining room table sweat-polished smooth
as glass, your dad’s easy-glide Barcalounger.
We thought the bed too tame—mundane
as white-on-rice. 

That was before we did it on the lawn
at four a.m., the boat dock when the tide was out, 
the army hammock and the diving board.
We worked over the meadow, the hayloft,
the back seat of the Buick. The tumble dryer
at the laundromat was a natural go-to; we even
ventured to try horseback and skydiving.

In all honesty, the local library was a cakewalk,
the bowling alley too noisy, but the eclipse
was ideal, the sudden drop in temperature,
heightened burst of starlight, birds roosting
and quiet in the middle of the day, people preoccupied
with the spectacle, as if the sky were falling.
There we colluded, lovers in our dark corner.

after two lines from Charles Simic