In the wadded heat of this mid-June snooze, the only cool
is the white small of your back, a sun-missed jewel,
as if long hidden under the mattress of the hermit millionairess,
you too have made this bed secret and precious.
I dare not flex even a cat burglar’s muscle but settle into you
for a cwtch, our arms pleached, a bone-kiss canopy,
a miracle in fact if flesh can meet flesh on such nights as these
and the heart still in the morning hold good.