I was used to opening the door
the ease of the latch, cold brass
under my fingers, one turn
thought it a simple thing
to let you in, was practised
thought I knew the score.
I was untroubled, making the difference less
between inside and out, thought
I had the upper hand, admitting you.
I don't recall if you carried wine.
For hours we didn't touch, lay side by side
talked, faced the fire. I understood
what had brought you, empty handed
or carrying wine
and that you had no flair for it.
So, when we touched, hips first
and then our hands - I was surprised
to realise I knew so little.
Still wonder how one night could make me feel
that humble, or that new.
