Your sexy little things are spread
in screwed up balls about my bed,
like tissue paper pompoms stuck
on works of heart designed for love.

But miles away from lingerie
and spoken spice at foreplay’s seed:
your last request for which you’re braced;
confessions, breathed against my face

as whispered screens behind which glow
the lights that cast those shifting shadows.
This mass of love; this dying star
of moment cast against the dust

pulls hard the instinct of my heart
while stoking fires of raging lust.