(for Gráinne)

As you sleep,
your tanned pelt
glowing against lemon sheets,
a warm southern wind
whips a sprinkling of rain
through the open window:
A blind cartographer
mapping you with kisses.
In the name of memory,
I claim that quicksilver
trickle of sweat;
its sinuous track
down into the small
of your back;
its slight tickling
at the top
of your buttocks;
its happy drip
into fragrant darkness.
Three days,
two showers later,
your smell fades
from my skin
and I submerge without trace
in the grubby quotidian.
Then, one morning,
several weeks after,
I pull on my grey sweater -
the very one you pressed
into service as a nightgown -
and suddenly inhale you
all over again.