Woven Little Mouths Many Poem by Warren Falcon

You emerge
from the bath
reaching for the
towel, soft, obeying
daily habit, wipes you dry,
each cleft, the pit of my
longing rubbed without
caution.

I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch.

Much there is I will
make of this moment,
drying your back as I
have daily done - once
began the rite
first night, gathering
now the last one
o when
the towel easily un-
folds, drinks
woven
little mouths many

deeply
into what
has become
natural in me
with the wiping.

In this
I am become
free now of
thinking intent
to this my task
to last this minute
or two, to linger,

each is
become a touch

this one

and this