Memory of Skin
You sit in the October sun.
The unexpected warmth burnishes
your face with heat, your eyes closed,
nights long past,
the memory of skin,
not events, but of warmth
beyond your ability to explain,
memories real and less so,
of perfect hours,
glowing into the night
Years of taking pictures, thousands of them, and I had no image suitable for this poem. (Sigh.) but then, some things are better imagined than seen.