Why is it that the thought of her,
the sudden and invasive memory
of the avid, awe-filled way
that she, on one enchanted night,
then pressed her face to mine
and asked me if I knew how much
within her heart I was adored,
combines to cause the muscles of my abdomen
to double in upon themselves
and makes me take involuntarily
a deeply tensing breath
as if Iím readying myself against a fighterís blow?
Why should the mental image of a woman who
once gladdened me for such an unexpected
heated while transpiring over thirty years ago
yet has the wresting power to place me lost
in time and unaware
of anything surrounding me,
to make my focus blunted, spare,
and aimed a thousand miles away
so centered on oblivion?
But do I really want to know?