A poem by Adrienne Cecile Rich (1929 – 2012)

My mouth hovers across your breasts

in the short grey winter afternoon

in this bed we are delicate

and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves

tough and delicate we play rings

around each other our daytime candle burns

with its peculiar light and if the snow

begins to fall outside filling the branches

and if the night falls without announcement

there are the pleasures of winter

sudden, wild and delicate your fingers

exact my tongue exact at the same moment

stopping to laugh at a joke

my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter

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