Woven Little Mouths Many

You emerge
from the bath
reaching for the
towel, soft, obeying
daily habit, wipes you dry,
each cleft, the pit of my
longing rubbed without
caution.

I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch.

Much there is I will
make of this moment,
drying your back as I
have daily done - once
began the rite
first night, gathering
now the last one
o when
the towel easily un-
folded, drank

woven
little mouths many

deeply
into what
has become
natural in me
with the wiping.

In this
I am become
free now of
thinking intent
to this my task
to last, this minute
or two, to linger,

each is
become a touch
this one.
and this,

without
decimals.

poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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