Between the couch and coffee table
we made love.
During the afternoon, snow clung to her black hair
I brushed away the flakes and touched her breasts
beneath the large worn plaid shirt
feeling her strong thighs press against mine.
We sat in the park. Chickadees paused, scuttling,
accenting the lawn; they dotted the landscape.
"The telephone lines go cold with chatterings of the night."
She told me she went outside
listened to the evening
and that is what she heard.
I trace the oriental curve of her eyelids
blending salt with these words
listening to her bones sing.
She wants to sleep in white,
asking me to close the window
and stealing the Pendleton blanket,
She dreams and whispers to me,
the night air is cozy.