We might have called a book,

“Pelvic Crush,”

drawn pictures of ourselves

on short walks

on Sunday afternoons,

allusions to silk,

contorting

on bright bed sheets

In truth, the tangle/untangle

required little Sanskrit,

no self-help hype or swami

swooning

Undressing so fast I missed it

October, the scent of the air

Illicit

A voyeur pecked at the window

When spotted,

fled into the leaves

Frantic ruffle of its feathers

and…

sweet! sweet! sweet! sweet!