Finally composed in Shakespeare and Co bookshop, rue de la Bucherie, Paris. Tuesday 11th, August 2009.

Let me take your hands and place them, just here.
Folded, a survival of sorts, you could say -
Rose-crimson, the colour of the Pre-Raphaelites.
This is the rope of words which I can grab with both hands,
This is the rope, which I can unweave with the flint
Of my fingernails, if I so wish.
I can conjugate you from memory: I bite,
You bite, he/she/it bites. We rake each other,
Pressing and heaving like dumb cattle,
Surprised each time as if we haven’t already covered every part
Of each other’s bodies with the stamp of our hands.
We are on our knees – mouths pressed to the hollows of each other’s
Bodies, the accumulation of birthdays on our skin.
Together, we own two hundred and six conterminous bones.
We are so tactile, interactive art;
We step into each other,
The spaces of our bodies mutually owned.
I suck your breath from the air -
The relishing of it is what makes me human.
We possess articles of freedom,
Prepositions: under, between, over, into.
We own verbs too: clutch.
I am happy to let the suds of you run guiltily down my skin;
I massage you into my crevices, a baptism of kisses.
I cannot give you much, but I know I can give you this.