082319

Overprinting

Some naked thing,

Fumbling towards dawn

With a torch in its hand,

Sensations:

A sharpness on the feet,

A chill, goosebumps,

The rough wood on its skin.

It has no speech, not yet,

It will remember nothing

Of this, after words come,

Writing over these first

Sensual memories

That will never be accessed again,

That first there was something,

Then, something more,

And then: everything!