When night arrives, what need have I for eyes
where fingertips have sharper sense to teach
me all your treasured textures, your surprise?
For sight alone would place beyond my reach
such fine details as warmth, below the skin
of lovers, pressing on me like it's noon.
And eyes are just two, while fingers are ten,
much more to make of passion than a swoon
of love with only seeing for a cause.
While pupils merely study as they may,
my hands can move with lighter touch than gauze
to give, in turn, what eyes cannot convey.
How better then, when darkness makes us blind,
it is to seek what only fingers find.
About the Poem
This sonnet celebrates what is perhaps the most intimate of the human senses--touch. So many people are visually obsessed when they really crave the nourishment of touch.
This poem is previously unpublished in print.