A woman in a film lifts off her shirt like
the first sharpened kid you saw pull his hair back
to reveal a suspenseful face,
The man she’s kissing feels up, his tongue
like a dairy calf no one could find, mid-winter,
and that Spring divulged as a half-eaten
emissary out of deep snow.
They movie-fall onto a movie bed,
realized like a notion decades later,
exposed by eroding disc-drips.
You watch them movie-lust in blue,
and to common, studio love-scene music.
There in scrutiny, livid, pink, smudged across
a glass slip,
their joints perfect, the sheet draped like
a fitted skin,
they collide on the movie-bed,
the tongue moment, the grasp, the arched
back scene played unending,
Loving one another each time the movie is played.
Outside the reel, turn after turn, in the real,
young girls drop hours into workable hair,
while old men lose years just clearing their throats.