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David Allen

I Am The Moment of Her Eyes Looking Back 

I am the moment of her eyes looking back 
from an old photograph, looking straight back, 
above her body bare in fall air, 
with a background of trees and grass 
and shadows masking planes and curves 
in the cooling light of flat September 
as she turned to take another pose 
that brushed the nerves awake, 
wondering who would see the kneeling secret 
exposed to every touch that eye can make 
or memory record to see again at a later date. 

Antiqua, 1975 

Blind skin recorded what senses missed 
as Indies’ trades imprinted hair with spice and coffee. 
Curved blue light and Gauguin sand glazed small bare breasts, 
as dawn, all tea and damp, with on-shore breezes 
driving fishing floats from Portugal, 
laid upon a round thigh, showed hair awry, 
blankets tumbled, arms across my chest, 
with no approval needed greeted and kept warmth warmer still 
in steady rhythms of the arched back and exhausted smile. 
You always woke skin senses first, 
before eyes focused or ears heard your quiet cries.