Anniversary Again

by Lex Runciman

             His eyes are closed.
But the intelligence of his fingertips
             leads them to her skin
asleep in the morning.
             He traces her temple, the soft indent there,
warm where blood pulses. He finds the line
             where hairs thicken and sweep back
(his fingers know the texture there by heart),
             eyebrow and forehead and hers.
She sleeps and sleeps, an even breathing
             in the lightless hour
before dawn, before intention or mistake,
             nothing unsaid or heard or said.
He believes in fingers, touch,
             life of the skin, life of the body.
He believes in privilege,
             this proximity granted by promise,
believes unthinking touch, simple tenderness,
             graces all it touches, ageless
and incorruptible in the sleeping world.
             He reaches to touch her face, or she
to touch his, or he to touch his,
             or she to touch hers--the human motion.
Thirty years for us September 11, 2001.