This touch of hand on hand, this feeling of
flesh so much softer than satin, a warm
enclosure unequaled on earth. This love
expressed so simply, even witches’ charms
can’t match the hypnotic charge deep within
each cell’s secret chamber, a space untapped
yet by science’s mightiest probe, a den
of light, dark, calm, and storm fluid as sap,
flowing like lava, glowing like ancient
stars. How do we keep from tearing ourselves
into body parts? We lie still, patient
as roots of old trees, smiling like small elves
who share knowledge of treasure buried here,
close as our breathing, so distant from fear.
Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2007
