and the window speaks to the flesh
          in these clothes
conveying a pulse a remembrance of
          what it was
like to be against the nerve endings
          of the other
whose wondering lips were not felt
          as anything
other than a proactive searching
          for a life
made to live through the touching
          the elephant
takes shape in the sightless fingers
          caressing its hide
blossoms from a relative nothing
          into a something
multifarious incipiently known as
          this or that
from these or those positions on or
          of the body
who am I without your impressions
          on my skin
without your curiosity to name me
          what I am
without your weight over my own
          to press me
down to make of me a world alive
          to sense
this blindless pane on sable nights
          it renders me