She had bought a negligee
far from here and never worn.
“It’s red” I mused.
She giggled or anticipated.
They were words, not words
as they can be words
said to break the ice.
“Yes, it is” with a broad smile
then hid her lower lip
behind her upper teeth
and lashed down expectantly
waiting for my mouth
would say no more
words more than icebreakers.
And it was a song,
and I saw
she hadn’t known
as I hadn’t.
Of an island.
Or a better
on a Vangelis
Those are words of course
as they are words and no more.
She also knew to do the dishes;
not to wet me she pushed with her pulses.
Hey, I saw you smile in the uncommon mirror
when I kissed the curve between your neck and shoulder.
I’ll paint you in despair because I cannot as you are,
although I think I know a lot as you do and cannot
hold me in your words, only in the no-words
between the lines where none can find
me or you in my hemp abstracts.
A negligee is easier and says a lot
which is why I said it’s also red
and can be seen and caught in that word
so openly pregnant of many no-words.
She doesn’t iron, she folds. That’s a secret
not unknown under women.