With Ribbons of Midnight
there
could have been
not just years.
Weren't his eyes
color of Lake Michigan
at midnight? Passion
restrained, rain on
the slate roof. In
this frame I'm in a skirt
frayed as the month's
been. The music
intoxicating as stories
in his eyes. Bodies
pressed cheek to cheek,
flush of skin,
the weight of his
fingers on the small
of my back. This
stranger, if the
chemistry is right a
strange glue as
magnolias drip lip
colored petals,
pelvises pressed to-
gether, dominance and
submission, doleful
wails of violins, an
accordion surging,
throbbing
