Don’t Touch!

This love’s a testy thing
bristled for defense
against the world
and pain:
we give up ground
for every gain–
we go around, around–
aground again…

My friend,
I see you there crouched
along the spiral’s inner curve;
I wish I could reach in
and touch your heart
but every nerve
you own is raw–
and intercepts
and shies
and strikes away
what seems to you
a grasping hand.

1990