TOUCHE

I love the swordplay of our .

quiet times together,

fencing with tender touches

and upraised glances; quicksilver cuts,

afraid we might pierce too deep,

too soon; right through the deadwood

of coffined passions, and former lovers,

friends who knew too much, whose blades

went too far in, and drew thin blood.

More skillful now, afraid of pain,

we know how to wound this more pleasant

foe with a deftness refined; avoid the parries

from before and only lightly say,

“touche.”