beg
beneath the shoulder blades

if this touch is nothing more than
lonely synapse
and dopamine

rushing to embrace kin

or run your hand through her hair
as if your fingertips are magnets,
and all her thoughts follow along

if such a small thing

in the midst of celestial bodies
each on their slow decline
interfering, colliding in shadow

would turn us all into a lie

it is a good one

and I will tell it

Here I am
Writing poetry again
Instead of talking to you

I trust in the repetition
the work of the Mantra

more and more recited
with love.

I trust in the deep ever-more
of life

the reaching out
of Love.