Your Arms, in Faltering Crescendos, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Your Arms, in Faltering Crescendos

Your arms, in faltering crescendos,
Wander through the room
Tinted with expectation of night.
The room seems a tottering tomb
Through which you roam with hands
Striving to press each form into the shape
Of someone buried beneath you....
Only when night sprays the room with his breath
Do you change to that which you seek. - Maxwell Bodenheim