Through French doors
I see our bed
two pillows flat
on the Welch spread.
I wont go there
but camp upstairs
under the comforter
where you appear.
The tulip lamp glows
the nightgown slips
I kiss your lips
And palm your waist
the small of your back
derriere and breast
your nipple growing
finger tips glowing
you stroke my sex
swelling
ourselves expelling
into the air
balloon that bears
us both aloft
taut, distending
one way tending
towards the ending
blast of joy
exploding all
¦and then
like feathers floating
down to sleep
we fall.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 13th, 2011 and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.