from loss. From holding so closely
that one’s chest is red as the other’s
and heavy with short breath, from
which to pull away one is wet with
the tears cried by the other at the thought
of the pulling away; from which the idea
can be extrapolated that this is it:
the place where one has come to be
alone and found this other person
similarly wanting to be wanted red and wet,
is the place from which one will leave
as one, with no hand holding his own.
To imagine is to consider the flesh,
sweat on the palm and the fingers
getting sticky, which is to feel the heft
collected at the bottom of the breasts
dropped like persimmons to the center
of the chest and smelling sweet, the crease
running beneath the derriere
to the hip making a space where
the body goes on beyond the mind,
from which a leg extends endlessly upward
which to touch is almost to touch
myself. Which is to say, my penis,
from which pearls like beach foam
that momentary loss which is the silver pool.