and clothes, swirl ice in frosted
glasses, whisper of affairs.
Idle men are so divine,
they confide. I pause, toss
it all off with a braceleted wrist,
and as easily as breathing slip
into thoughts of you; coaxing
me down winding paths,
resurrecting me like a vintage
champagne. The improbability
bewildered me.
Such a feeling can only come
once. It's the turning time,
my friends say, sipping
white wine spritzers. Intoxicated,
I see you in everything, feel
the same flush of heat that passed
between us when I wrapped
myself around you, all too
ready, unbuttoned my blouse without
a care. The beauty is,
you'll soon forget.
(c)Ann Shalaski 2007
from A World Made of Glass
San Francisco Bay Press, San Francisco, CA
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