Blowfly
Half awake, I was imagining
a friend’ s young lover, her ash blonde hair, the smooth
taut skin of twenty. I imagined her
short legs and dimpled knees.
The door scraped open,
but eyes closed, I saw nothing. The mattress sagged.
She laid her head on my chest, and murmured love
against my throat, almost humming, approaching song,
so palpable I could hold her only chastely,
if this was chaste. I couldn’ t move my hand