One Inch Of Fingertip Poem by James McLain

But, for one inch of fingertip.
Where she touches me
the right hand
her with her other next door of the wall
where I am inside with her touch
the left foot makes a cross
under the table my legs
and undoes those, opens two until after I.

Where you caress slowly it I find,
rather than her being
higher than movement I grow.
To be high that under that mink
would it show where I am.
At last where there is black
it is not at all it is the softest skin and I.

The silk onion skin pages.
I open the book which you touched.
And as or crismatic when I to you whom.
You go away when I enter and express.

She removes the buttons
of the black mink as our lips,
closer come stop
and as for you
the contact where she says everything.
About nothing as my finger feels.