his fingers bruised my night skin
with the blue of secret caves

and when he turned away
his back    warm    cool
curled like a question inching into answer
a young moon nuzzling the night sky

in the half dark his hair is like a pelt
as if some night beast had been with us
and slapped its dark paw over him

I move close to see if I can sniff the beast
and smell the smoke of an ancient cave

© Annemaree Adams
from her book of poems 'The Dogs'
pub. Five Islands Press