Unknown

I wouldn't mind if when I came home
the cup of your hands pressed close
against the hollow at the base of my spine
as if collecting old sorrows
to let them spill like dice
to be bet upon and forgotten.

I wouldn't mind if at night
the pulsing slope of skin
from your jawbone to collarbone
were half a centimeter
from my cheek
not half-way between here and never.

I wouldn't mind my ear
at rest upon your belly button,
starting with the whispering of lint
and following the aqueous aural path
into your belly and bowels,
the proof that you are real.

I wouldn't mind a pair of eyes
blinking slowly
oceans deep, the way I look at everyone
seeing something more in me
than a dream deferred, a sample cone,
an overseas trip.