by Ted Guhl

Come, touch me,
though I am so afraid of death
(forgive me)
that I would groveling live,
would grasp anyone who had youth's
instant breath -
so alive it seethes
with color beyond light.
Though I know that your love
is razored silence,
hard as truth's teeth,
certain as law's balance,
in submission to the "we",
I cry, come touch me.