Twenty years of innocence to drift into a room
ripe with anticipation. A single lamp floods
the floor like shattered glass. Picasso prints
clutter the wall as Buckley intones
through the shifting gloom, mourning love
and loss and everything in between.

She offers a glass of red and a reason
for their fingers to touch as she passes
the thin neck, the beginnings of sex.
Her dress stiffens at the knee when she sits;
her beauty lifts and rests. Blood is working
his heart, making his arms feel useless.

Silence comes to a head when the words
he wants to speak act instead: finding
a key to the latch in her throat
he breathes her in, unlocks his tongue.
She leans across, he moves in close.
Curtains lift in the open window.