Playing a tune on my clavicle, you please me as much as the somnolent rain dripping on a mossy cabin. Outside deer fattening on silver lichen; the wind rattling trees by the creek.
Tracing the arch of my instep, you please me as much as the dense flutter of snow brushing the alm hut; chamois speeding through flurries which hush the mountains, zig-zag in the twilight.
Counting out my vertebrae, you please me as much as the neck-tickle of rounded sand grains while dozing camels aspirate to the flapping of the tent canvas, sweet with blue smoke of burnt myrrh.
On this old alpaca couch, you please me as much as the sun, which as you sleep, stripes our dun flesh with light the colour of pear-skin; as if we were lying in long grass, dissolving into greenery.
First published in The London Magazine