Cleavage

A furtive note slightly pixelated
obscures her breasts

from the bright red
laser beam, glaring
in contrapposto.

No one sees him
smirk, though,
unable to contain

two commas, mirrored
as if cursive sweet nothings
playing hide-and-go-seek,

abbreviated scribbles
amid willowy tapestry panels
hung below sea level
partly drawn

now silver-tipped
but soft-edged

another Barnett Newman
stripped bare of bachelors

in vertical conversation
between pink, tumid lips
and her strong jaw.

So what did she convey
to make him so abstract?

Perhaps something
representational,
a fleshy gesture
of how incarcerated
desires wander

uninhibited by affairs
governing mores
which beckons

other agape bodies
of blurred thought,
double-barreled shotgun
half-cocked.

No more than five hours of sleep

A not-so-tiny weight rests bone-hard and perpendicular on the thigh pillow; his breaths, though even measured, finally enter into silent mode.

The ensuing quiet is strangely cold for the first day of June, but three hundred and twenty two minutes later, Tweety Bird begins singing an operatic though barely recognizable Looney Tune much earlier than Sylvester, still groggy from the night before, expects.

Where did that song come from?

Out of the colder blue, smoother gams resuscitate another jingle, short shorts which awaken from sweet dreams nicely. So nice, in fact, that he unknowingly hums along

Her lovely Matisse-drawn curves.