The Romance

Springs creaking under flannel sheets,
a checkerboard where moves the plot,
traps layered, games tossed.

Wool blanket drawn tight,
but real power played in
the stoked blaze of a far corner.

From here, cackling in a dying amber,
the fedup logs lie in heaps,
spent and worn. Each eaten

by what bought them moments
where they licked the cake beside the flue,
and dreamt of what it might be like to spread.

II.
Wind bottlenecks through knotted wood pilings,
shrieking whisks of urchin wind.
Whistling air blows trash and leaves

into swirling plastic turbines.

Even with the bed body warmed,
I leave the room behind--
staring at cool blue clock eyes,

and the steel knobbed stick.

The seat is bucketed, bowed.
the night just as threatening
behind this windshield as the house's panes,

and panes and pangs of pains.

Still, another room, another bed, the fire,
wrap around. Flames, heat,
arms, legs in a ferocious dance,

that gives the illusion of being free.