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than pulse or throb the physical
sensations your skin the many
parts of you soft hair hard
thighs of you ignite a wildfire
raging through my house more
than these blue eyes these
hands of yours upon me your
lips and tongue and belly all
the places in my body where
we join an ancient home we have
traveled miles to find such sacred
ground I dream an old house
long straw-colored eastern light
and open rooms soft sun on hard
wood floors your body presses
on me like the stairs of time the solid
frame of you the beveled surfaces
that meet in perfect miter the clean
plumb line that falls and falls and falls
toward the center of the earth
© Joan Barton, 1998
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