Touch

An ancient ache, rooted 

deep in time

behind my stomach

deep inside. 

A desire to indulge

our most forbidden sense

to touch

By culture, by continent:

sinful, casual, restricted

A world wherein the brush of human skin

Electrifies

Disturbs

Soon excused, still flustering.

I long to stroke the velvet youth

of a new shod leaf

to crush 

without mercy

the brittle remains of the last generation

-dead this past fall-

and cry over broken shards of bloody paper;

bloody nature's discarded glove. 

I press the new skin to my skin

cool green veins link

for a breath

to mine own blue-purple branches:

I am forgiven. 

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

There is such a transformation that takes place in your poetry. It felt almost as if the touch of new skin was the new life of spring. Powerful vibrant words.