Sylvia Cycle IV

Her brown jumble of raked curls
Tumble forward across her red smeared smile,
Then a lighter sparks
And she breaths a stream not quite silver,
Full and satisfied.

In the end,
She needed none of my words,
Only modulated moans.

I lie on top the smooth dry sheets,
Watching with envy the hurried smoke
Racing from the slow, squeaking fan
As she asks for a tray.

Ashes, ashes,
We all fall




11/1/03