Knocked Out

I miss your long graceful curves

stretched out beside me while we slept.
You use to do this thing... well several things...

... where you'd replace my body 
pulsing with energy and with heat
with the cool side of a static throw pillow. 
It was often that dark blue one, 
New York with a heart - do you remember?

You would bend the crooks of your elbows,
collapse your hands on top of one another. 
At first I thought you were praying, in the way 
that small children pray to the present, the future,
to sunshine on grass and moonlight on flowers.

Now, well, now I reckon those were the hands of
a boxer, a champion, a heavyweight skilled in
not protecting us from monsters and nightmares
but in fighting me off, fighting us off, from your dreams.