Turn, twist, into a field of view
A scattering of leafless trees
A bunch, hung in mistletoe
Unsung but knowing
Over tiled rooftops on into grey sky
From a warm bed
With touch, without distance
Unseen but knowing
Fingers, footprints; my just to touch
Under quilted satin covers
With tender rapturous thoughts
Inclined, and yes, I showing
Laps of fabric, folds of skin
Gossamers of purest nightshade
Warm oils, burnt incense
The musk my love, flowing
