my fingers
engaged
in a desperate bookshelf search
for you
in between
within
or falling from
the volumes of collected poetry
i came upon your book
signed to me
with sacred words
when the world fell on the floor
at my feet
it was the room key
from our first evening
together
in the biltmore
room 440
where the revolution began
and ended that last night
with us
speeding back toward
moving lights in the desert
from the cries of los angeles
refusing to go a moment without touching skin on skin
wrapping around each other
as much as leather seats
in an italian sports car will allow
fingers falling together
as pins in a lock
you
throwing your head back
all kerouac
proclaiming
sweet one
keys open doors