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!