Intermezzo

Maybe in the dull heat after sweetness

your body steams, your flank cools and so much

passes between us with every touch

that we need not speak. On the floor your dress

plays murder victim, your forlorn knickers

are the white flag announcing armistice;

my shirt is Fred Astaire. You plant a kiss

in the palm of my hand. Something flickers

and the moon appears outside the bedroom

door, filling the house, exerting its vast,

crazed gravity on both of us. Above

us now, the air is filling with perfume.

I feel the present, future and the past

evaporate, condensing into love.