Just as simple touch is drawing
a probing barb—backward first
in order to secure what is forth
and, without retreat, out of reach.
And that touch thus treats all that is
as furtherance, a never-finished
and yet ever-polished face,
in a game of what feels soft,
alongside a pausing solid,
waxing loose and amorous,
to appraise, audit all her ears
as long as inclined, willing.
Paramours thus dip into much,
forgetting their heels and hands:
“Would the garter stop me—
stop me from seeing anything else?”
And amid such trance of induced forgetting,
like travelers at the sight of ancient busts,
they tap and open another long-buried sense—
and remember—
what nothing else will count.
