Of a finger
As it glides
So tenderly
Across the cheek.
Of hands flat
Upon my shoulder,
In the hollow of my back:
Gentle pressure
Drawing me
Into the warmth
And softness
And firm strength
Of chest and shoulders,
Hips and waist
Before me.
Of lips dancing,
Fingers flowing. 
In a single life
This is some of what I miss.
Transcendent One,
In whose image I am made,
Could the wonders of
Be one reason you
Enrobed yourself in flesh?
Do you miss
The calloused fingers
Of the fisherman,
Your mother’s cheek
Against your beard,
The arms of Magadalene
Against your back
As she impulsively
Embraced you near the tomb?
Of your lips
Brushed lovingly
Upon her brow? 

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