first it was the mountains -- we sat outside all night
listening to the wind sweep around us in huge
                                        incantatory circles
“hands touch all the time” you told me as you
stroked my wrist but I knew I was in
                                        lovely trouble

Alluvium: any sentiment deposited by running water.

second was the city on the hill --
                                        we could still see the Pacific
I touched the broken angel wings of your shoulderblades
and you
                    said you
                                        had better get out of bed now

(How many textures can I steal from Wonderland
                                        and transport to Hell?)

third is the desert -- just me in the desert
wondering why I ever came to this dry pink emptiness
without any part of you to touch
                                        except memory

“Memories picked by crows.”

and last comes the swamp fortress of home
where nobody calls my bluff
or touches me
                              like you do

I am a different body now, tattooed by your attention

you said it was chemistry, but maybe it was only gravity
I wonder
                    as I achieve
                                        escape velocity