Flesh, I confess it. I hold your letter
and flesh warms. To shine in your eyes.
You phone. It gathers for your hand’s spreading.
I call to mind your look. I am completely still.
There’s an air of the river, of all things growing in its flow.
Letters, mementoes, poems. Looks, touching. Touch:
Lines we have walked in named places of the earth
like things said, fall away. It comes to this
tenderness: the hand’s gift, the eye’s light.
– Judith Rodriguez