i want to read your body
like neruda poem
written in braille,
my fingers searching
the pages of your skin,
gently brushing away
the hair that falls  
like a silken bookmark
across your face.
i will work my way
down the page, hands
trembling with excitement,
anticipating which words
will follow.
fingers will linger
in some areas, reread,
so that on lonely nights
like this one I will
be able to recite
the subtle nuances of
your neck or the mystery
surrounding your navel.
I would try to interpret
the verse for others,  
but there is no translation
for your lungs breathing
into the palm of my hand,
or your heart, beating
its ancient tribal rhythms
in correspondence with mine.