World is What You Touch

We no longer hold hands 

because you use a walking-stick to stand. 

Instead we slip together afternoons, stretch 

across the double-bed we can’t use nights

now you’re so restless.

I lie fingers on your arm,

toes against your skinny tibia 

and it’s enough through seaweed feet 

to slither deep, not to sleep 

but into another world.

My skin is listening to familiar haunting, 

little songs tuned to body, 

a pulse of openings and closings

anchored where oceans form and dissolve,

scatter and gather,

changing as they remain the same. 

I peer at the elemental 

extraordinariness of lying there, chilly-boned,

a flame passing through

to do with all I breathe and am.