There are names, you know, for everything here —
names to conquer the mind's wilderness,
divide it, make illusions
of the simple facts of our senses — awkward names,
grotesque — they fit like borrowed clothes.
I will not use them here —
Here — where the thoughtful arch of your fingers
your hair in my face, our half-cold feet
are the whole world — every direction
draws inward as we curl under
the sensation of our whole shape, lingering
at the warm edges of sleep — here —
among these stories older than words —
I glow with the bewildered, innocent affection
of a child for a still-nameless wonder.