rock calls me the most these days
sharp edges, smooth mounds, gaping pockets,
some places rough, some polished
all so much simpler to grasp at, struggle with
than the other, not so simple desires in my body

the ones which well up in my chest, my belly
at the sight of tumbled hair or a golden shoulder,
a sunlit smile cast in my direction

the ones that tug at the old muscle which has
worked the most, is tired, wants only rest
seeks only gentleness and quiet
and not to be disturbed too much

my hands are rough now, anyway