Sometimes
your touch is like
my own hand on my chest:
we are so much in touch
your touch is lost.
I touch your stomach, thighs,
and the rest,
but do not feel
the blood beneath your breast.
Last night I dreamed
the touch of someone else,
their fingers fresh across
my sleeping skin:
I felt again
the frisson of the strange:
I felt again the racehorse in my pulse.
How sad,
the middle ages of our bed.
How cold the evening without a star.
I'm told that there are comforts to be had:
I watch the ceiling, wonder what they are.
I draw my arm around your sleeping form:
the night is cool - together we are warm.
