For My Softest One

For my softest one, in a hammock of satin,
A bed of rose petals on pillows of mink.
So lightly you lie, a suspended sonata,
In lines of fine ivory and islets of pink.

Hands hollow with hunger, my fingers would follow
Each lift to its fall, each peak to its draw.
To bruise or to break I would not, yet I think
That I must, as I live, partake as I give–

Eyes careless and blue beneath cumulus climbing,
Hair tumbled and free, framing all my dream fair.
I trace your terrain, hands floating so close...