There are three tiny holes
in the curtains
and I know
because you have begged
my scheming eyes
to turn from your body.
They have tip toed a trapeze rope,
travelled a no-man’s land
held by a thread
from your head to the balcony.
I gamble a glimpse,
a spy’s glimpse of your skin.
Your tan lines a distracting child
that plays with the braille of your birth marks.
You break the spell
when you move to shut out the light
and we hide in each other,
in the darkness
almost alone
but for three tiny holes
in the curtains.
The Graffitied Wind 