Song of Songs 5 : 2    by  Brook Emery

I wake too early, too late, unmoored before dawn.
Sleep won't come back. I listen to the populated dark,

try to give shape to the sounds I hear. They must be
insects, birds: I can't get nearer than that. I try

to give form to thoughts, observe them
as they trail from hiding place to hiding place

or prod them if they refuse to move, head and tail
pulled in, the thin shell that could so easily

crack. Memory comes embodied: she has your shy and
sudden smile, her breath against my ear is yours, the moon

and apples are on her lips and at her neck the rise
and rise of pulse is yours, is mine. My slow hands trace

the outline of your spine, the small of, swell and shiver of
new morning skin, and hold you in this light dark.

I may have drowsed
                but my heart was never more awake.

© Brook Emery

from his book 'and dug my fingers in the sand'
published by Five Islands Press 2000