Last Touches

There can be a last embrace,

 

(chest faced, no hand grasping

flat against still scratchy cotton,

on an ill tailored t-shirt.)

 

but this is not to be taken literally.

 

(back a taut tepid tension

wet breath whispy worries,

awaiting, vigilant, and vital)

 

Anachronism has no meaning to the mind.

 

(dusty dark dusk of old plaster,

tannic air dry swells sinuses,

shrapnel spears of nasal hair)

 

What is last is not last but in succession.

 

(unsolicited need in a holy time

picking dry scratched remnants

from proboscis, profane)

 

It is a time pregnant,

 

(pilled flannel whispering, rubbing

legs, hands clasped between,

before me, tiny fist praying)

 

with broken habits, and assumptions,

 

(eyes closed, faint feet of crows

in streetlight lamp shadows

furrowed forehead frowning)

 

and a fight for pandering caresses.

 

(turns pulls covers enveloped,

Burritoed, cold no blanket

in the half heated half draft)

 

Do not mine these times for meaning,

 

(coastal wind shakes rumble

warped storm windows in

loose fittings jangling)

 

but touch them gently with purpose,

 

(shame of a new earned

belly rolled over the waistly

boxer band pinching)

 

and feel the electricity of breath and proximity.

 

(last hints touch memories,

needles in the fingerprints,

of turn away tucking)

 

And convince yourself that knowing it is so. . .

 

(black buzzing futility of winterborn

summer fly fleeing darkness, taps

incessant at unseen ancient glass)

 

. . . that this knowledge matters.