Sovereignty
A hot stroke of yellow, the pug wagged its tail
by the moor. His owner elbowed
through the snow, then ran after the little creature.
Their footprints and breath-smoke engraved in
the lapis of light. Theatre
of tenderness. Cathedral of time.
Pine-barks prickled snow,
and the dog nudged the owner’s
fingertips, slowly. Still-snowing.
The way I waited, this path, for a frost-flake
to drop — its entirety in this vein-blue
hour — to signal that it was here once,
that it touched. But no, there was
only the lushness of my fingers’ shadows
contouring those velvet, snowcapped mountains.
As if reaching for the fabric of a future, calcified
by this late winter. The distance between was and will is only this:
still wild geese, penciling themselves
into January’s departure. So much of this old light,
that I’m back to you again, the wet torso of early morning mist
and your ever-arrival. You who told me once — to look
is to be made found. You, who always crouch
by the floorboards, thinking
how our hands will always find ourselves.
Yes, of course the hands which moved,
the faces that turned, I remember them all.
This sovereignty of a touch.
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