I am a suggestion
between workings of brain, the solid ridge
of spine – a curvature
kin to breasts, hip, loins.

Almost touchable,
I tender flesh, still, in old acquaintances
who might have been
something more.

To a subtle fingertip
my nap is velvet – in some strangers
I am a lily’s stem
geisha-cool. Intimate.

I glow under moons
beneath the wedge-dark, am back door to eyes –
those hogs of the bone-glint,
of the brink of sharing.

Eased aside, locks
reveal me: curtain raised on my milky
opening night – or slightly bowed,
offered to the axe.