Scarce fledged—a girl—a burbling under her breastbone—her throat tickles. Filmy, fanning parts—meshes with the curtain—air comes flushing through the curtain, and frisks up—her tongue tickles and sparks at the tip—unloosed the belt—soft face creaks into straining jaw. A bottom come rough from sitting.
By the telephone; she called and cradled the speaker there in the soft inner pads of her hand. Her hands were held up by her rigid, blood-riddled wrists; sit up, dear, and loose the severity of your arms. Thine arms, thine arms, thine stiff-stuck arms!
In a confusion, she spit over the sill and laughed; he disrobed and tore his shirt and hid his foreparts in a wayward curtain-billow. Thine arms, thine arms! She pounded in the cotton and shut the topmost drawer; she burned under the breastbone. Her throat ticks as she clasps his forepart with her fingers and runs her eyes against it. The air, spit-whistled, cavorts between the panes.
He’s felled from his mount, like St. Paul. He straddles the floor now and laughs, staining his briefs and trousers rather. She danced and danced in the ruin of her bed. She shook her hair, and wiped her face with it as he inched back up again. He folded her down to his knee—cut off her brassiere—they coupled again. Thine arms! Thine arms! The air settled in the branches there to have a look—she spit at it between her teeth.
-2002
