My Fingers
My fingers move in the dark of the study.
They fall and rest and rise again
from the soft petals
of keys
transcribing
how I scraped back the chair
near the swimming pool edge,
promised to return
from getting a drink
and digging for change,
saw her ringlets of hair
above the soft, tan river of cheek and neck,
followed that river, as far as it went,
dove, quick and deep
in her shimmering skin
and rising for air
saw her turn
and laugh with her friends.
Which is why
these hands move in the dark of the study,
fall and rest and rise again
from the soft petals
of keys
transcribing:
late night fingers
on afternoon skin.