Their eyelids pink
as begonia petals, the pale tints
of their skin indistinguishable
from the wash of summer
against the windowpanes, they go
nude across the drawing room.

Beyond the colloquy of cage-birds
the radio reports the weather:
the sky shall bless us all presently.

In what dungy infernal trench
did we once lie together,
the nerves of my spine
like harp strings under her touch?
What whirlwind bound us?

Henut sprawls on the sofa,
its worn embroidery
and flaking gilt softened
to a dusty bloom by the woodwind
of the afternoon. The other
kneels between her legs,
enfolds her waist,
circles her nipples with her tongue,
then lifts to kiss her mouth.
The amber and chestnut
of their hair mingles. Are there
two girls here, or only one?
And if one, have I
ever seen her naked?

The meek, the white, the gentle
me handle, touch, and spare not.
Geisha Henut sits across the room
from where I sit. The white
of her face darkens
as the window turns
towards evening and the trees
loom brown against the sky.

The gold thread in the gauze
of her robe is a fire
of frost upon her shoulders.
The strings of my unaccommodated
body are silent now.