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,

travelled a no-man’s land

held by a thread

from your head to the balcony.


I risk a glimpse,

a dangerous glimpse of your skin.

Your tan lines

a distracting child

playing 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.