by Gary Percesepe

if death has an opposite this must be it--

how often in bed have I laid beside your 


animal heat thinking there will in every 

life remain secrets and receding lines


where we lose ourselves in those unspeakable

spaces as memory blurs into forgetfulness 


then reach to touch your shoulder, your arm

cup your breast warm in my hand and 


trace the line of your slumbering leg--

if death has an opposite let this be it