Your skin
spoke to me
as a longitudinal study
of music, theater, art, politics,
strummed against my body
and the beat
of a fan overhead
moving particles of
the temperate flow.
Cold dampened my toes and fingers
until I could not retain
my kindled words.
The prickles of a ghost
were partnered with your eyes
reminding me
that I would forget.

We all do move
on
the longed-for.
Recognizing from far away
the warmth
that ripens the knife
and untethers vocabulary
from tongues.
Or the deep
pavement of 1,000 year
travelers
lifting minds to
a sonic mystery.
Eyes want more than
ontology or a
beautiful life.
Iris fixed ahead
looking for
the humming heart,
satin organ,
living texture
deeply evidenced
with optic thunder.