I brush against
the strain of tense
muscles. The hol-
lows of your knees.
Your ease of twist.
The grace of hon-
ey pouring in-
to the jar. Prick-
ly pear I peel
in silent prayer.
Dry, plump skin. Fang
marks. Juicy fing-
ers. Bob in the
bowl—turn around.
Moisture shimmers.
We are eating—
I am being.
Return to my
senses. See the
setting, smell it.
A dream no more.
Sauce everywhere—
an avalanche.
Just my sort of
a miracle.