The sweet ripe poetry of you -
don't pretend I can't smell or see
how you languish in our bed,
how the pillow is a prayer
and your shoulders
just reach up to the sky.
Don’t think I am not dreaming
of your hands
and the nimble minions
of my ankles
always reaching out
to tell you
it is an August night;
that deep blue suits you
and the moon is waiting
to make its first move.