*for aislin*
the fingertips
do not forget
when the asphalt thaws
and the city springs lightly
in a longer sun
they remember
their travels in a windswept field
where wheat gave life to their pleas of love
as hard red spring became gold
whenever she turned her head
left in their midst
were the tears that made wine
for a poet's supper
and the skin that bore smoothness
found on walls in Agra
the fingertips
remember their travels
in the tendrils of your hair
and once in a while
they simmer with the life they found there
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