Just when there seems nothing more could be said . . .*
 
a texture on your cheek appears,
a smudge of gold, brown, gold
catching a yellow fleck in the left eye,
your flower of an eye
that opens like an optometrist’s dream:
a restful knowing eye.
 
A distinct touch moves
on my forearm’s hair,
- tints of gold, freckled brown -
Up and down.
Up and down.
A warm wind
sways the barley field,
the sun setting.
 
I let just-audible words
stroke and calm,
stroke and calm
your tired, unsettled mind
wrestling with thoughts of those
who know you as someone
you may no longer be.
 
In my arms you remake
this newly-discovered self,
your self with an intent to be
who you know you are.
You gather strength.
You gather resolve.
 
We sit on the shadowed grass
and make love with kisses
so eloquent our tongues
construct words,
a whole lexicon beyond
any passion our bodies
could invent.
 
Our tongues curl and dance.
Our tongues curl and dance,
touching lips.
Touching lips.