Faint yellow, like a breed of northern morning sun,
elongated and distorted and yet beautiful, your memory
of youth consorts with you as if it’s hiding in a funhouse
mirror. Its sheerer sweeter lucency comes clearer
as you near the wide and unresisting eyes. You look
into them, find them wiser than you were prepared for.
Poreless skin is bared for you, its silken tightness beckons
like a stream of consciousness too warm and odd to enter.
It is the center of a pure circumference in which you
have no place. Except within the grace of soul,
which knows it, and which knows it whole. But you areonly mortal, and you’re old. Your memory grows cold.