What lacks is the closure of bodies to touch, tracing a hand that is held
Close to the heart while lips depart on the shoulder’s sail.
But it is all the same, the alone to the alone stirs and beats
Among the ceiling’s dreams.
Maybe it is a fart or loud breathing.
But there must be times of touch when the heart slivers on blue and quickens in
Adrenaline, when the body melts into gold…
This purifying erection, this fountain of light, this dazzling jewel: the dream
I would like to see, the thought I hope to live, the image in whose shadow
Fantasies are cradled. As I hold the concept so I would touch and feel
The thing it represents, so I would know the symbol
That the letters spell, and weaving words into a name
I would call you back; I would call you.
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