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Under Canvas

Stretch out fingers that
Bend to wet
Palm pools of
Blended paints under
Silk sheet sculptures breathing sweetly
Moonlit forgeries of warmth,

The lapping of shores where (we
Stroked low strings and
Hit high notes
and) the hot blanket air
crashes against the headboard
with her hair

tangled in aromatic coils
and underwear crumpling
by the blushing stem tips bent up
in the ripple cup blossoms of uncrossed legs,
as improvised melodies (peak in heat heavy
mouths hardly speaking,)
compose the songs they are ending
and completing.


S. Preston Duncan