At 39 Weeks

These days

are tied down

mostly

by print and paper

or they stay

asleep

firm, ripe plum,

plump.

Still your hands

seem webs or nests

--places

that are home

And i miss twisting

around you like flame,

making you disappear

inch by inch,

sweetly, in sweat:

while your touch

like twilight, smudges

me purple-tinged.

_