Perfect Moment Maybe it was Procol's Vestal Virgins reminding me of him, away in Vietnam tossing the dice of survival, or my friend sprawled across his suicide bed-- casualty of a very different sort of war. Maybe it was the way your eyes  traveled inside when you comforted me, that led me to your bed.     But your children were tucked into your wallet  and I wore a promise ring.     We chose to stop.     Maybe love is the memory of one perfect recycling moment, riding piggyback on the here and now, or the way I again feel you inside me when stars sear my windows and a bird call slashes the night. Pris Campbell ©2009 Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage