Here are you whose fringe is
Split off-centre, resting on top of
Square spectacles. When your fingers press
It is as if plainsong drifts into me.
Try not to talk.
Some things are so good it is not
Possible to know when they have stopped.
The song passes through itself
On the way back.
Let go of thoughts.
Each touch an echo of one
That went before a time I
Can't be sure about. This quiet
Is your voice.