so many pleasures, yet this,
the chiefest!
it is the cellular sensation, a momentary
swiping the real stroking of gentle grazing,
the finger-tracing painting of another’s
softest places
this is what I will ever miss
this is what I will eye mist
when the eyes, arms and all the rest
age beyond, functioning justa at the “barely” test,
as long my forefinger, tho crooked and bent,
can draw lines upon the cheeks of my beloveds,
the lover sleeping beside, so relaxed, eyes closed,
the children, whose skins elasticity is living electricity,
even the warped, veined, roughened dying skin
of those yet glowing-gasping for the tactile worship,
I will desire to live
my first poem.
