Warm
This poem appears in The Love of a Good Man.
After a long day's work,
I come to the cold door of the apartment.
I come to the flatness of the floor,
the moon-streaked curtains,
and down below
you
half-uncovered between two thin blankets.
I caress the slender length of your neck to your back,
to your buttocks,
an eternity along the longitude of your legs.
My eyes
never tire of watching.
My cold fingers
leave burn marks on your skin,
touching you without touching,
and you
slowly curl to the latency of my heat.
Two boys' slow fiery breaths
in the coming replay of night fading to daylight
crystallize their drowsy, makeshift retreat to the deep.
In the morning, I put my arm around you
and, slowly—pulsating—slowly fall into sleep.