You are a cool desert memory
from another time,
that calls my name
and leaves me easy to touch;
a silent dream of my soul
from behind your dark Semitic eyes;
fingerprints of home
that tell me my own story.
What was it I felt
if not the shadow?
What was it I touched
if not the form?
There are many urgent
sensibilities,
many separate motions
that lead away
from where my familiar answer
would caress
your gentle question;
where I soothe you with more
than just words,
and move so softly
only you can hear.