To feel my hand upon a shape, a form
I find familiar in its drape: though known,
It overwhelms my hand by touch alone,
Though sight and sound and scent and savour warm

Me to its thrill, its pleasurable norm,
And call me to its side.  And I alone
May know I should confide in that I own,
And hence am owned by that which I transform.

I feel it know at once, as once I know
The day such stark perfection will arrive.
I know reflexively, almost as though
The figure in the mirror comes alive

And reaches out with anything but this:
A touch of any kind, except a kiss.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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