.

perhaps it was the way two fingers
brushed my hair away, his breath
warm and moist on the back of my
neck, maybe his laugh which came
from deep inside his chest, soft
and low, how he knew I did not
want to be drawn to him but was
and the quiet pleasure he drew
from knowing I knew he knew,
like dreams of dangling in
spider webs


words don`t satisfy these winter
nights and days, only looks and
gestures do, eyes and lips and
fingertips, the silver moon
suspended in an indigo-dusk,
pregnant with light on the edge
of a sparkling snow-swept lake,
biting skin to February wind,
the canada geese that always
greet me, all the things that
words defy and that time
misaligns

"I have never planned to write a text;
everything I've done, even the most
composite of my books, were
occasioned by a question."
(Derrida & Ferrais)