Closing her eyes to intensify the sensation
she touches a warm stone to her cheek.
He’s moved so completely
a man of less experience might have swooned–
while he, nearing 50 years, merely staggers,
his moan choked to a whimper,
puddled with desire,
yet lucid enough to appreciate
his utter confusion about what he feels
for this young woman,
and what, if anything, he should do.
Motives are seldom pure,
but he’s not even sure
what he wants to be:
the stone, its warmth, her cheek,
the river, ocean, or the sun inside
the moon burning inside her–
all, none, or some complex combination of possibilities
that he knows enough to know eludes him.
But he knows beyond knowledge
that the rain-swollen river, strong and slow,
moves the way she would be touched,
and he wants to open his hands and touch her like that,
at the melting threshold between glide and swept,
swirling borders, rolling depths,
Mozart weaving milky emerald silk,
all caught and curled in that flowing poise
of wet coil, chrome spark.