Something Moves Poem by umashankar manthravadi

something moves
it is
the eyeless terror
reaching for your skin
it is a hand

cold
rigid
dying in
the distance

your skin
also cold
distant
pale shroud in the dark
stiffens
turns
defends

it is a game played
by children
fingers
creeping up the sheet

in slow public terror
of anticipation
terror of desire

[how hard it is not
to stumble walking
when the need is to
break into a run]

if I break trying
not to touch
your skin
a damp ghost derived
from a shape from the
past
grows hair
nipples
of cold
pulls me down
whitely into the
night

if I stumble

i fear the living
who do not come live
in my hands
desire
that lost its shapes
accidental small
beginnings

every woman
I touch
turns into
you
and I am starved
for human contact