A shadow graduates to black
among the slack folds rippling
at the hem of her dusty rose gown.
The gown falls open mid-thigh
as a dimpled knee bends, folding
over his naked left leg.
His calloused hand, burrs on the thumb,
scratches gently down skin -- cocoa butter
and cinnamon. The smell is genuine.
And warm. The old television glows blue.
Later, she will dust its wooden cabinet.
For now, a tense rest -- gods in lust.
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