In the beginning was a shape which I fumbled for its contour with a mind to describe,
and you, with blue stockings covering your knees, had known of it from books.
The shape is in constant change,
written words about it do not tell, and my talking does not mean and stand.
It is the strokes of those words that sign tiny crosses on my flesh,
their sound echoing in my bones.
The repetition of lightning. The rings of shiver over shiver.
You breathe into the shape, you breathe as you breathe,
and the shape takes shapes that betray my touch,
for my touch is preoccupied with constant contours.
But you are dearer to me than you think,
and you are cherished more than you believe.
Oct. 16, 2008