Your Lap
It is a haven, this
russet triangle of corduroy
where I prop my head, each moment
more content, more ignorant
of obligation as you rest
the spine of a novel
against my cheek

and read me, in a quiet
voice, of the undressings,
the low, animal growl
the hero makes
kissing the nape
of his lady’s neck.

Tonight, I feel
every dolt walking the earth
should have, like this,
a lap, a warming place to lose
the noise of the street
and bathe in the glow
rising through clothes from a hearth
of muscle and bone. Here

as we braid our fingers
and let our hands
release their cold, I can
forget the crackling
ache of the walls for fresh
paint, the awful dying hues of the lawn,

and hear, nearby
in your pulse, the rumor
of deep, fluent streams
winding through lilies and ferns
where the day loses velocity
and gathers me into
this bright, feminine lake
lit by a silence of trees and sky.