I am a million miles from you and feel
Your finger tracing circles on my thigh:
A weird sensation on my skin—so real—
I reach out for your hand. I wonder why.
Sometimes I think I am a lunatic
For dwelling on your presence in this way.
I have lost nothing—life or limb. It
Must be nerves, playing tricks. Nerves love to play
Cruel games. They say your hand is here right now,
Everything outside my thigh is numb—
The whole circumference of the world. How
Could a finger contain such devastation?
Maybe my tingling body sort of knew
Burns lay beyond the atoms that you drew.
Eric Norris lives in Portlandia, USA. His poems and reviews have appeared in The Peacock Journal, Classical Outlook, E-Verse Radio, Singapore Poetry, Soft Blow, Assaracus, Glitterwolf, New Walk Magazine, The Good Men Project, and American Arts Quarterly.