sex

It’s better in the winter:
mukluks, woolens, socks and scarves
unwind like so much baby bunting
to reveal the season’s surprise.

The lamb’s-fleece peels off in showers
of melting ice and snow. In summer,
the silk of a negligée is too much
clothing to be borne. In winter,

the excitement is in the discovery
of the warmth of a human body
buried in the prepositional
accoutrements of the winter season:

Under. Between. Beneath.
Inside so much snowbound gift-wrapping,
underneath the hints of lanolin,
denim, and windchill: you.

At last…a draft that might be worth printing out.‘Bastille Day’

Maybe this will be the day it will coalesce—
you, me, the empty bottle of chardonnay,
the driving urge to put this breach to rest.
(Another attempt to put the past away.)

I won’t lie to you—or, at least, not today,
when you’re so determined to be on your best
behavior, to mend a relationship so far astray.
Once more, this night, at your behest

I’ll don the satins and silks of recreational
adoration. It’s my duty to make things right.
Your body may be my confessional,