He leans into his arm, peeks
at her hose crotch bed-height,
her breasts doubling over.
It’s no artist’s pose, feet in a basin,
pin shivers in pointillesque.
Still the hair she holds off her neck
sends heat into him. Otherwise,
color and motion, the day’s
global positioning rachets
into place with a purse click. Sweet, she says into the near dark.
She could mean the sudden breeze,
but he catches her hand
with his rough cheek.