Desire is the fate of

place and its beginning,

the reach need gives

to fingertips and teeth,


breath’s second self

warm and breathing,

the I in each you, I

say, for convenience


sake, the locus of self

brimming with pasts,

lifting like waves and falling,

skin chilled and drawn


toward each occasion

of touch, accidental,

of course, and incertain,

the temper of things.







Photo by David Ip