A Perfect Fit [sonnet]
I eased my probing hand inside your glove;
it slid within and melted into place.
(Did angels send you to me from above?)
Your body floated over mine with grace.
“Right here, right now!” I fevered in your ear
as meteors made an arc across our sky;
and when you thought: “A token, please, my dear”,
I placed my endless arm around your thigh.
Astonished by the face before my eyes—
struck dumb by those kaleidoscopic tones—
it swathed me with a sense of sane surprise
much more than any face that I have known.
Are you the puzzle-piece for which I pined?
Have you for such a space been predesigned?
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 