Allison Grayhurst writes

My hands,

your muscle-toned thighs

and the ways between us

that unlock the wonder of

the thin stones tucked under my pillow.

You are glorious like the sun and

a river that curls its breath with

primal speed. At peace with these

broken bones, and even with

things felt, but unimagined.

You are late October in my arms. Everything

is ours. I touch you and know the end, all means

of luscious renewal.