fresh flesh presses against a cheek,
smoothing it softly with his silken palm.
he reads beneath the lines;
feeling beyond the form of me,
to touch the truth of me.
he is, by turns, gentle and grasping.
his fingers flip from stroking,
to tiny fistfuls clasping
a protuberance (in his exuberance)
- sometimes raising red.
and off with the hats!
and off with the socks!
his hands are the rocks of his world.
he feels his way through;
moseys to the edges,
searching for where he begins and ends,
feeling for the substance of himself,
(as if seeking the spirit of himself)
in the solidness of the walls.
there is no time for resting -
he is forever testing
and examining those interesting
objects which catch his eye.
he brings things to life
then gleefully claps his hands;
he understands that
he can make things happen.