silence, an immense room
        then so suddenly obscene.

memory clings longer than imagined –
I say this in hours where I touch you
   not with hands, fret you not with fingers,
kiss you not with lips but with words prying open
with gestures which unwound us ever so softly,

I unsay your memory shorter than it was held
far beyond what spring embraces solemnly inward,
     that in light structure of night you will be wholly made

true in calmness what the tremors of my home
        unravel with little dints of December keen with
   its thrall,

touchingly you

      without a flounder of breath or an ounce of caress,
  are still written here, like the world answering
           for our questions –