I lay my hand as lovers have, a play of affectation,

My fingers fit the ribs, sinew on sinew, skin on skin alone,

You are different to me, just words sequestered,

In dusty tomes; life scaffolded in ink like the lung by bone.

Here is the liver, dull, cage-cooped and silent,

Seeing fingers, open palm, leaves and spring,

You are different to me, asexual, sterile,

Barren as dune, scorched, scarred with heat and wind.

Contours that give me sight, traced like ancient sailors

Navigating by constellation at the landless pole,

You are different to me, yet more lovely than the tendon,

That suspends the cells that suspend the soul.

Is it you or I who is being examined?

Invited guest without invitation, behind the velvet rope,

You examined for this invader, the irony;

And you me, for reason and meaning and hope.