ALL:

Dear You,

You’re magnificent. Your life spreads out, a hundred bevelled surfaces.

So each time I am with you, I attempt to learn them all, by instinct, by rote, their names, forwards and backwards, their feel, sometimes soft, at other times gravelled, coarse. I try to build myself a niche in each of them, here, by your fingers, long, twisted, where poems, old poems, dog-eared, and yellowed-- Baudelaire?-- yes, Baudelaire-- have left a mark. Here, by your shoulders-- broad, unchanging-- that once held somebody else’s head, pretty, I’m told, extremely pretty-- but aloof, yes? Aloof. Here, right here, by your throat, that sculpts phrases, tender, low, a dull hum, like something foreign, entirely unreachable. And here, close, by your mouth, warm, moist, that moves but says nothing, nothing, so I must turn, gather tonight’s pleats with my fingers, disengage your hands, gently, so no-one will notice-- and leave-- leave-- dulled silence, hanging by a door, half-askew.

Magnificent, yes. But then-- I’m greedy.

I had to have all of you.