After

(c) 2013

We touch and are infinite.
And the moment after
end tables darken from an expansive flesh
to mahogany and coalesce. Walls
like madly growing vines shoot
up from the floor.
As Space reassembles solid and rigid
we notice chill from the window,
snow fall, the graying shoulders of the day.
My back is cold. Time no longer timeless.
Oh, how fortunate, those gods.
Within your arms,
a temporary transcendence.