touching
the periphery
excited, finally
about something beyond the real
(what happens with the body
always being like a secret
we carry within)
the light of morning draws lines
hinting at the shapes of things outside
as in the dream
where your mother
is not your mother
the face not hers
but breasts
insinuating
and tongue
anticipation grows
out of everything
desire burrows outward
from shadow
brutal, clean as a mirror