work in progress

Naked knees locked together, we are lying
flat on our backs with books
on our bellies. We talk
in line length and rhythm - we stare up
at the ceiling, our hands pushing 
into the empty air between us.
The fan flickers light-patterns
over the walls and your body. The bed
groans beneath us, the heat
presses our hips and shoulders down
against the mattress, your fingers
tangle in the sheets. 



Not anywhere near done - this is, I think, all leadup to what the poem is actually about. Still. I will work on it later.