Fingers have eyes—
To touch as a painter touches
After he has painted, I see you
As a blind man sees the sun
With skin that reaches
Into the lighted air,
My kisses sparkle out—
Take flights in the long flashes,
The startled flocks of white birds,
My fingers have sleepy eyes
Longing to know you, to be
On the clean, blue, mystic slates
Of the rapt and printed skies,
The stars with their eyes,
Blinking in and out in arousal,
How your voice envelopes
Me as I drown in murmur,
How your body unclothes
My soul, dreaming within
Dream.  Where, when,
Do you come from?
Take me  .  .  .