When she hoiked it off
in the August dark

her blouse was man-made,
nylon or rayon.

I still see her under-
arm rash of sparks.

She has straddled me
since, like Orion.

More and more, I make
do with her umlaut

as, more and more, she
turns her back on me

to fumble with
the true Orion’s belt.