surrounded by perfume,
sighs and thighs
probably, properly, destiny
not to be
a semblance of romantic
interspersed with
fucking antiseptic Coptic
bliss—in your world
fingers wishing for
the “come-hither” in pairs
holding breath, rhythm
frantic with purpose
joyously sparse and
instructive terrain

and him
and you

like a set of 2x4s
swords, boards
clapping and rusting
at the nails
that enclose this
pine box
on a tiny evening
over here on this side.

© Tom Watters  11/10/07