The glances tumbling wide: foggy fields
of purple vetch when I lift their faces to me
in the rounded bowl of a wineglass.
I ponder other worries: recipes of failure:
the matchless kiss turned affectionate.
Once, as my hand guided a woman’s lower back
to a camp, an inscrutable fox followed
then led, crossing a moonlit path up a knoll.
Discussing de Sade by a plate of gouda, one laughed,
I want ravishment, complete ravishment.