A lovely girl, wrapped like a child
in an oversized blanket.
She lets it fall open in front,
like a tent flap.
Ashen skin, the puerile pink nipples
and the dense pubic mottle.
She resembles a Russian grandmother, unbundled,
and as she bends forward, she un-spools her dark hair
like a willow tree, trailing her trellises
on the spindly creek of my spine.
I am in bed with a book of poems.
She straddles me, a girl at play.
We have responsibilities, you know.
Presentiments of families, careers to unearth.
Endless expectations. Oh,
let them wait, she says,
her tongue tracing the chancel
at the base of my neck.
Outside, the soft, baritone timpani
of a winter rain.