I guess if I closed my eyes, it could have been every summery evening that I've ever known.
* * *
It is simply touch as it rushes breathing
and the fired warmth of blood, coursing.
It knows few answers and holds more
than all the arts of desirous mouths.
In the final falling stretch before sleep
(the edge of alone in reality or memory)
wisps of reverie touching, pooled so deep.