Casa na névoa da manhã
The country house haunts my eyelids;

the fog folding around the windowpanes
like nylon against a stubbled leg, long
and milk-white, the bowls dripping with
fruit, our tongues sucked inward in
inappropriate jest, smile at the obviousness
of a single candle lit in the foyer; the honey
hot wax frugal in the air, the straps of my
chemise hanging at my elbows, shoes left
on the porch to dry, and a collection of
unused teapots dusty on the kitchen table,

all we have to do is choose -
revolution of unbelievable
arithmetic, the erotic line of
my neck bent back, the indents of
fingers on skin, like wet grass
underfoot, unexposed, half hidden
in the corn stalks, mirror paned in
your eye, refracted into gulps of
cold air,

a scarf tied around my mouth,
the only noise a grunt of surprise.