"Body and Fabric"
a transparent gauzy fabric draping her,
revealing her breasts, and from her shoulders
two gossamer strips extending downward
in a gorgeous hint of wings. Those praying hands
point to, are almost in place of, the place
between her legs. If her body is making
an invitation it's clearly inward, to itself.
It would be disastrous to want her.
Her neck is visible, but not her face -
a placid mountain tarn, I imagine -
unreachable except by snowshoes and guts.
A woman who holds herself like this
is more nude than she will ever be naked.
It would be good to be in her presence
after having made love to someone else,
my cock unworried and small and happy
to be asleep. I'd ask what she's been reading,
what she does for fun, I'd wonder
if she might have something to teach me
about patience and the void
I'm always trying to fill. Wouldn't it then
be time to try to make her laugh, laughter
one sure ticket to where the spiritual is?
Or would she have gone further inward,
away from my annoying speculations
and stare, thinking to herself (wrongly),
"No man will ever follow me there."
