We are apart
but the memory of this time
this very time this hour
a week ago
last week in fact
so vivid fresh
it must be true
no idle dream
or fancy’s flight
but oh so very real
and very true . . .
 
naked on our bed you lie
for me to draw to sketch
I let my hand and
pads of fingers five
describe those shadows  
your body forms and folds -
that dark dark space beyond
your folded arm and resting breast
and then a plateau next
the smooth persuasive lowlands
of your bottom’s rise and just
before descent miraculously
a crease (as if from nowhere) forms 
and runs and disappears
deep deep deep into the depths
between your thighs . . .
 
. . . and then to gaze
at the kind disorders of your hair
hair in which I love to lose my nose
and feel my eye-lids stroked and kissed
by twists and sudden unexpected curls
(and maybe find an ear and with
the tongue’s most tentative touch)
the confluence the turbulence the trace
and thread of nature’s line and stem . . .
 
Know with the mind’s eye
        ​these forms I hold entire
and all the while your beauty’s
         ​gentle song plays on
         ​looping forever in the mind’s ear