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.