The Point

We come to the point
where there is no poem.
We have come to it
a hundred times.

There are a hundred faces
but there is only your face,
the face I trace with my fingertip
a hundred times,
so that even in the dark
I can raise my hand and trace it
In the air above my face.

There’s no poem–
there is your finger
making your name in little
circles on my chest,
every circle a perfect O,
and every ring a future.

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