From the window overlooking the valley
I see her spread-eagled, face downward,
legs folded akimbo and swinging in the air;
bosom like pouches folded between the hills.
She can’t sleep through mornings;
he kisses her heels and pushes her skirt up,
nestles in the dewy haze of light,
watches her vanish into a vapour of orgasm.
She is a slimy wetness at the end of his robe
that he forgets as the day advances and air gets stale.
She soon draws him under ripples of dark blanket
and bares her breasts fresh like blooms of fuchsia.