Betrayed when you drift to sleep, I’m wide-eyed on the shore of that most inviolate sea. The run of the body beneath my hands, I’m uninspired to trace or repeat that geography to my senses, or to shape any new thing upon the innocence of your shoulder. My fingers and my eyes, instead, compose gay songs on the deaf piano of your spine. A distant fugue in your dreams, my dear? Or a gavotte with a smart, gloved lady?