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In my lensless nakedness
your lacy garter belt is lost—
those chromed, chained nipple clamps
as well, for all I see
is fuzzy, pale light, as indistinct
as moonlight filtered through high clouds,
a poltergeist, or succubus,
or other restless spirit come
into my complacent, corporeal world.
So I trace your body otherwise:
The round rasp of your voice,
that cat's yowl and purr; the scent
of upscale perfume crossed with sweat.
I find that I can tap my way along the wall to skin so pure
my very fingertips erect.
And so to, finally, my Dowsing Rod;
the odd, capricious thing below my waist
that always picks you from a crowd
because it knows a well where it can drink
and never, never thirst.
When that says Walk into the light,
I do. I walk and walk and walk
and only little die.
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