A Portrait Of

                                them,
It's not the concrete you,
                                me,

          their
More your disparate parts,
          my

Their                
Your mouth and its assumptions,
My                     my

Their
Your nose and the way it lies,
My

( the years take their toll on our peripheries),

                           their
The triangles of your shoulder girdle and our
                          my

suprasternal notch,

Points of vulnerabilities,

Their
Your
Our internal structures emerging through our skin

which stretches over them to

form a padded suit to hold us all together,

Delicate in its own receptiveness,

Telling the tale of our times

on its transmutable surface.



    my
Is the  ear lobe visible,
    your

Is it pierced and decorated with a stud,

Or ring or some dangling

                                         t
h
i
n
g


Your                                      our
My listening gathered in by the auricle,
Their                                     their

Which can be imagined twitching imperceptibly,

Responding hair-like to the undulations of the waves,

As they sweep by en-route to anywhere and everywhere.


                my
Where is your hair ?

             
Is it tucked behind the pinna,

                                 your
Bound tight behind my head

with something pulling,

To expose our temples,

With their worrisome veins ?

      you
Do I want to see it waving,
      we

Florid, tumbling downward,

                            our
Undulating over my naked shoulders ?
                           your

An eye is guided by the beholder.

There is;


Sensuality in the direction of the gaze,

The way the light,

The line of form,

The suggestion of texture.


Look at the surfaces,


       your
Let our looking wander,
      my

Until,


The eyes are met at last.


And lock.