Dew on a Rose

baby asleep—

my tongue

licks your wet nipple

a cool night breeze—

under the bed

a sex manual

the taste of honey

on your nipple—

the symphony’s crescendo

after lovemaking

the Kleenex box

out of reach

old lovers drifting to sleep—

the damp spot

between us

dew on a rose—

a pair of aphids

spinning

      *

my hand curves

       to fit your breast . . .

the windowsill, snow-laden

moonlit surf . . .

your nipple hardens

against my tongue