With lustful delicacy he strips her (darling dear)

Cold fingers on still warm: he is turning purple

Whisper – virginal, he sobs with fear

Holds her tight enough to hurt, if she weren’t –

Still and silent, he greets late december

Timid tremors as he strokes her hair

(who would have thought?) oh, that resentful stare

A charming boy, and such disarming style

Her lipstick smears and how he wishes it were red

Handprints on her face and what a smile!

A lovely day, if you ignore the dead.