My Lady drinks of her wine,
And with a shudder, faint,
An inch slips from her body,
Soon her clothes hang loose, without restraint,
A fireman's lift later she's between the sheets,
And dwindling beneath the covers,
A spinning world-
Pencils into bamboo cane,
Shelves into mountains,
The ceiling into sky with sweeping stars,
I trace patterns with a single fingertip.
I cup her and drink deep.

Smaller she gets, until atom point,
She billows into the vacuum she vacated,
And with but the memory of the world created,
Smiles softly, in my arms... my hand... my sky.