Yes, lean over me and say again
how ink is drawn
from stylus to page
by the woo of capillary action,
how the rapid-fire infilling
of tiny spaces in the page
can, for a moment, satisfy
all the tiny longings
in your soul, the little things
we used to say and do.

One last time
touch the palm of my hand
and let your fingers move
like pen strokes—
all fever and felicity.
Let me feel again the dottings,
crossings, commas, periods
before the closing of the sills.