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