You say we’re older. The future’s
no joke. Some days are sufficient
in their dull, real hurt, while others

are enough to make us wonder
at every semblance glancing
out from between the countless trees

in this adumbrated forest.
How many acts of elision
does it take to figure a light?

The way you hold me now is not
inconsequential, though it could
be said that I might have never

needed you. Prior to breathing,
I was blind, apart; you were
always you, and so, inwardly,

loved. Measurable were the days
I’d been touched or heard my name said
well, if ever. Before, little

more than wind and rain, dim static
extinguished with a turn. Steady
now (the accident’s awhile back),

your hands affirm the long-noiseless
truth: I remember nothing save
for you walking into a room.