A History of Nearness          

for Erin

I. Writing on Water

We spend an afternoon 

writing on the surface of the reservoir, 

what wind there is 

moving across our text,

rearranging the words so the meaning 

we’re swimming becomes 

a frothy mix of desire 

and cloud 

pulled with vigor to our chests 

with every stroke 

until our glides grow close 

and indistinguishable 

and we meet at the boat,

lift ourselves over the gunwale 

to look at what we learned 

inside the arms and legs of one another 

on the towels spread across the silver deck.

II. Touch, a Kind of Secret

I thought I might have trouble sleeping, 

mind bouncing from person 

to word to photograph. 

The sheet 

was twisted 

and hot 

so I folded it atop the mat 

and sat in the center of the room. 

A ray of moon shone off the polished tiles. 

I looked through the opening in the drapes 

at what I remember of your features, 

the back of your neck and calves 

as you washed your hair in the sink, 

head on my hip in the dark.

Touch, 

a kind of secret.

I close your name 

between my lips,

taste 

those nights in silence.  

III. Swimming Home           

So many years of flowers

and pine trees dying have passed

without my finger lifting enough to say,

“Come here, move a little closer,

tell me enough to tell of you.”

Melodies of faces past,

my old loves found in shells,

the gestures ignored

become pink lines

ineffaceable.

That vibrant tongue full of taste

and sense now boiled, 

graying and old,

its own stink of autumn and bones

writing your words.

It’s all here now, I have to tell you—

the pages I tore and crumpled and ate,

the books I burned,

have finally found you

in poem.

James Fleet Underwood writes poems that arrive years late, usually to the people they were written for. His first collection is Home Before the Dogs Come Out (Alien Buddha Press, 2026).