the one that you know drapes over
your breasts, your naked torso
as it sits contemplating upon your dear dear bed
your delicate little fingers brush through
the redwood forest that is your hair:
truly your eyes can meet the screen
which you ponder softly within your head
still you naked and i naked makes so many things
that take us out of that whiteness glow:
the day gone, but our night still infantile
as it lays down pressed against a pillow of oak
and i am pressed against the pillow of your redwood hair—
the splendors heightened sweetly by the whiteness glow
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