The medicinal cotton clouds come down to cover them

The Medicinal Cotton Clouds Come Down to Cover Them

To smother their smallness

in felt. Unsatisfied folds, filmic

emotion—remote, pale and impalpable.

Each with their own secret

inflection of want.

There was no debate on this but merely a mood

shift when certain words were mentioned.

Inane nexus of speech, never quite capturing

the what invoked.

She slid her panties down over her hips.

The broidered hue of illusion,

idea drunk in the delicate gloom.

The picture of a hand becoming

a hand. Whose? Yes. Desire reworked stepwise,

a would weep. A was told and lying very still.

Was allowing just so to happen

to her. Neck nape a curve becoming

infinite abyss extended to wish, wish, wish,

and righty-o, a stunning result. Isn’t that nice?

Rosey-o, rosey-o. She woke, took one look:

Oh, it’s you. Yes. I thought I dreamed you.

Siren girls sang somewhere. Nice, she said. Nice.