A Slow Track

The book open,

light on the page,

my body still

in the cool air.

Then the feeling.

A tiny current,

slow,

from the hollow

of the arm,

down the side.

It takes its own time,

a private,

unseen path.

Like something small

with too many legs

crawling a damp wall.

A betrayal.

This body,

still giving itself away.

A secret river

just under the skin.

Stopping at the hip bone,

then gone.

Just a damp memory

against the fabric.