I sleep holding your right breast in my left hand.
The light left holding an apple, after morning fog has burned off,
could not be happier than my hand, full.
Your breast at rest, a firm flowing object in the world.
I gently roll its nipple in my fingers.
A joke of exactitude? Let the five tongues of my hand answer
as after a deliberate, seductive peeling
each speaks with a smeared accent the fragrant oil of orange.
Living among your body for so long, my hand
begins to look around and finds your body more bodily
each hair and pore declaring itself a pore, a hair
until my hand becomes a body, where before
pointer and the empty signs: dreaming my mail intercepted,
methodically folded away, the offers found years later,
and dreaming its symbolism: our life on earth
not so much a choosing as one side of the moon.
Q: Why not talk of your breast's oval to the touch
like an apricot? A: It contains all curves.
I tuck myself into the crux of you, nothing to do
with sun or moon, just to be a river in its bed
nudging the notches, enough to drift with your earthly curves.
I sleep with you and wake. I have lived an entire life.