My touch shifts against worn edifice,
calluses on fingers ground to new skin by old stone,
pages turn backwards, a glimpse at the binding.
Sensual, cool, rugose and dark.
My touch parts venerable silt from ancient surface,
as did all the touches from before, my hand,
is the same hand that sculpted and buried this:
A callus remembers where a head forgets.
I uncover that I might one day remember forgetting,
I dive deep in the river where others float,
I steal time from the clutch of Death,
but only for so long.