After all it is a lover’s touch
although you say nothing
as you run your hand
up and down the sleeve
of my gray cashmere sweater
wrist to elbow to shoulder
and back again
Again and again you tell me
how touch is a language
far more keen than words
Whenever you must sign a check
I take your fingers in my own
lifting them
to the exact spot
on the line
where the pen must fall
Oh marvelous touch
You carry the weight
of what lies unspoken
Words refuse to serve
and fly away
like frightened gulls
And when your eyes are dry
I tilt your head
my hand on your brow
and poise the dropper just so
that one—and only one—
drop floods the eye