They are large, the breasts,
more than two handfuls’ worth.
I move the soft cloth over them
slowly, gently, though she is bronze
and does not require tenderness.
I give her tenderness. I touch her
the way I long to be touched,
unhurried, deliberate, leisurely.
Outside the window, the cottonwood trees
are as naked as she is. Last night,
I saw the full moon in their limbs
and my thoughts let fall all their leaves.
I want the full moon to linger on me
the way I linger now on the narrow stretch
of her body, putting a shine on every
inch. She is lovely, God, she is lovely,
with her head flung back and her
arm flung high, staring at the world
with her unchanging eyes.
Through the window, I watch
as no birds fly from tree to tree.
The emptiness between the limbs
is empty. My thoughts grow
faintly green.
