MY love is like crisp, clean
sheets, cool and smooth against
my skin, caressing; he --
enfolds me, wraps
me, keeps me just-warm-
enough.
The intriguing creases of him, which
smile at me when he sits
rumpled on a chair, disappear
into flawless evenness
when I spread him
across my bed, where
he lies, fresh --
still, passive-seeming, but
tempting; seducing me
by being there,
by being silently, sensuously
ready to have me
slip between him
and the cover.
My laundered love
will touch me
while I sleep.
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