The Lovers

A picked path home;
I see
framed amber in the jam
of the neighbours
tilting window.
They are arching like parabola.
their hefts of thigh are
a white gracelessness;
the covers tossed – thwump –
against the floorboards.
He is knotted, she is pressed.
her plaintive voice
is a small white bell,
a trembling note hanging
on the eaves of
the night.
I turn and blush
quicken my step
to push away
from a scene so naked
in ways
other than flesh.
I was cool
but now I am feverish with
the scarlet swoop
of the belly-burn.
I refuse tea
and he probes for the cause
of my suckering nature
and I say
the night, the night;
(just here, you see, I touch and show).