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.