You return in parts
like a movie once seen.

I recall scent and texture.
My senses turning to
drinking birds.

Your golden triangle
the opiate of drenched blooms.
The smell of soft moments
astride driving passions.

Looking back,
reprising scenes seen
from close-ups too near
to be put together.

Not seeing your face
remembering only glances, flexures

but the body responds.
Your hands read me again
in a book thought lost.

















(C) Eric Ashford July 08