Imagine a shape eased from perfect marble
in the white light of a November noon,
or drifting through mist on a thatch
of sycamore leaves. Both of you, from
hips to plinth, at the sauntering center
of something we all wonder at. Not everything
needs right angles. So let us rethink this:
the feel of the sheets that first night,
the whitefish, courgette and viognier,
your arm holding on, our hands,
that kiss on your cheek as the Arabs watched.
Yes, I must touch you to see you.