Thursday, March 3, 2011

When at First . . .

You take hold of me and just then I hear a whisper that comes from beneath language, where thoughts can feel warm and almost touch skin. Then, the your unspokens beget pure tone, scent, salt. I yield.

You cradle my head in both of your hands, work your fingers into the knots behind my jaw, tug a bit to extend the neck, then rest my head on small satin pillow.

Through the open window, a slight push of cool air, a bell from a church rising above the sounds in the street, your breathing and mine. Invisible is the stuff that connects us, among cells and atoms, not of them.

Just past the edge of this unmitigated moment of zero, everything awaits.