She had bought a negligee

far from here and never worn.

 

 

ďItís redĒ I mused.

She giggled or anticipated.

They were words, not words

as they can be words

said to break the ice.

ďYes, it isĒ 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 hadnít known

as I hadnít.

Only dreamt.

Of an island.

Or a better

Amish world

on a Vangelis

tune promising

creativity.

 

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.

 

Iíll 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 itís also red

and can be seen and caught in that word,

so openly pregnant of many no-words.

 

She doesnít iron, she folds. Thatís a secret

not unknown under women.

Or men.