The Keeper

When I sleep now,
all tangled politely in you,
dreams come of past deeply loved things:
my childhood dog’s face,
young days among the comedians,
maybe more than anything because
to stay with you, I won’t fly overseas,
abandoning like father did; because
your body has no single part more beautiful
than many I’ve been with,
but contiguous and smooth, your skin answers,
me to me;

and, as well as anything,
the weight of your sleeping self on mine
invisibly countermands — love stale-mating gravity — 
and an Indonesian voice has clearly stated
you won’t accept my love
in the form of the word.