There is no end to it, the pleasure
of touching your body grown
even more familiar than my own,
which is alarmed almost daily
with alien pains in places I
never before attended.

But yours too is always changing, and
now that I'm an old hand at
exploring your thighs and chest, the crook
of your arm, I am aware
of their altering contours, can trace
down the runnel of your spine,

the smallest shift in the streambed
of cool mossed stones, caressing
the firm, the rough, the spongy and hard--
places I have not created,
but like to believe I've left transformed
by years of running along them.