How our beauty falls away, the way our tight 
gold flesh goes loose and grey, hangs and wobbles.
I walk you from your chair by both hands,
purpled and bruised, a few small wounds
bandaged but bleeding a little, to the bed where,
before I place the foam boot on your foot,
its red misshapen toes, I massage your long calves,
pale and hairless now, a thin layer of skin
stretched on a long bone.  Where you were hot
and electric and my longing fell upon you
there is only the abiding warmth of a living
animal.  I hold you with such tenderness, 
astounded at your injuries, carefully tending them.
Your hand tremors in my own, the hand
that held me, the fingers that sorted out my 
straying hair, touched with such delicacy
and made my body rise, unable now to find me.
And so we leave all that behind for this
other kind of love, push through 
to what remains: the way we sleep, the rain,
the moments we are safe, still here, and
nothing hurts very much.