index on the oval

you took me on top of a mountain
a bald and treeless height
and urged me to take a photograph
tired and old, weathered and wise

it's neither far nor forever away
but hours, surely hours
and surely not today

and developed on my skin
a clear, discerning portrait
of what i haven't seen since then
that disappear when i begin to descend

and i must confess that sometimes
i roll down my sleeve
to cover up your nameprint
and enshroud my disbelief

but reverie approaches on evenings like this
and she pulls all my nerves out from in between my ribs
and she gnaws on their bodies but ends her love with a kiss