(c) 2013
We touch and are infinite.
And the moment after—
end tables darken, flesh recedes
to mahogany and form. Walls
like madly growing vines shoot
up from the floor.
As space reassembles, solid and
rigid,
we notice the chill from the
window,
snowfall, the graying shoulders of
the day.
My back is cold.
Time no longer timeless.
Oh, how fortunate, those gods—
Within your arms,
before the world returns.
