I often wonder what it’s like to quiver
slightly, when fingers knead precisely right,
to lounge and lie about with belly white
and wide, exposed, paws that tread–deliver
the hands of a praying nun, stretched to hum
on a quilted bed, downy chin muffled asleep
in a downy neck, with hair ruffled and heaped
like thistles in a winter garden, body numb.
I gaze at your blue eyes as they slowly sink
half-closed in murmurs, woozy eyes so dazed.
Lips in a half smile, teeth pointed and aired,
you purr slow sheet music with hardly a blink.
Is there meditation in your gaze
or just a kind of love, hushed and quite rare?