The size of

your hand. The

roughness of

your finger, calloused

by tobacco and putty.

The warmth,

the must,

the constancy,

and the faint

whiff of

smoke.

The white-washed horse troubles my quietness,

Spinning me again into the orbit

of infancy.

I see you, blurred, on each rotation,

my north star,

until you fall,

changing my course.

The air is sweet, ready

rubbed and money makers.

I sit by your feet between stopped

vines on my dried-up

milking stool.

You use an artist's brush

to stimulate

the stamen and to succour

the carpel and the bee.

Behind you, Araneus casts his orb aside

and reclines to feast on

your aphid harvest.

We don't talk.

                                    When you move

I move.

                                    When you breathe

I breathe,

                                    and listen

to the tick

                                   of your heart.