I have not forgotten
when we first made love
for hours
on my writing desk, your
lovely six
little fingers on each hand

swallowing the five on my hand.
My fingers became forgotten
in the six
repetitions that embraced me. My love
for you
could talk for hours

about what was ours.
My is hand is your hand,
here to write out your
song like it’s being forgotten,
our love
always multiplying by six.

I counted ten six
times that hour,
and our love
had yet to end.  Both our hands
still wove like the forgotten
digits of Pi. But your

touch was not tired.  Your
touch was not worn, although it repeated thirty-six
more times.  I count another climax, though I had forgotten
from where I have started.  Our bodies had become hands:
palms, thumbs, cuticles that fold themselves together and sweat love.

They have never ceased clapping (though love
often does).  Again and again, I write you,
remembering your hands
against my flesh and the six
words your whispered that hour.
Those I have never forgotten, and I will not forget.