Frame of Reference

I wrote this poem last September in my English 490 (Advanced Writing of Poetry) class. I've been trying to rework it but I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I woke up this morning and wanted to edit this specific poem because a year ago it meant something entirely different to me. And I wanted to change it, not completely, but enough to tell a different story than originally intended. Let me know what you think. If you want to see the original, just ask.

Frame of Reference

Air conditioned
air attacks my
exposed neckline as

slideshow images of
the city morph in
to more rural shots.

WATCH YOUR STEP.

In one particular
scene I
catch a glimpse of towering,
splintered wood whose bolts and
wiring coax me back
to a sunset on a hill.

BARRINGTON HILLS
POP. 3700

Subtle desperation. In the way
you held me
up against you.

Forceful, aggressive. Your
wanton lips inhale mine, inquisitive.
Searching perhaps for an answer
that I--

Rows of posts extend, impose--hovering. The hard
ground beneath us is
judgmental. But still your
thrusts saturate me, not like
they used to--

If you see something,
say something.

Buzzing, humming lines of electricity live.

I stare directly at them.

At you, at them.

Inside,
you feel foreign.

It was the realization of knowing
the difference between
fucking and making
love.

I know what it was for
you.

It was. It went.
It was
the first time we fucked.
It was
the first time I knew
I no longer had

your answer.