One quiet night
In the meandering of a guitar
I touch a memory.
The hand glides along a corridor wall
into a tiny, dimly lit chamber.
One hand traces a rough metal stove,
the other unveils the blanketed entrance to a room.
The feet get snuggly.
On the left, a book case.
I leaf through Borges' stories,
recollections of a Dominican friar.
I step across the room and touch the guitar.
We sit down on the carpet
for the practice of Aikido control of the center
Suwari Waza Kokyu-Ho Musubi.
A guiding motion circles out
and I feel the touch wrapping around
and I feel wrapped in the gentle warmth.
--- [updated July 21st with B's help]
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