When we cradle
there are so many
skins between us,
cooing, warming, clinging,
moods cloying or morose,
sobbing dirges of last repose,
less often (thankfully)
than comfort or arousal,
but ever pinpricks of
recognition and recital.
Sometimes the embrace
reminds of support,
struggling, limping beside,
within, atop but escape
however achieved,
once me, then you,
guide and guard shifting
as oft as survived, though
occasionally doomed,
until another cradle
is formed of temporary flesh.
