I'd walk her home after work,
buying roses and talking of Bechsteins.
She was full of soul.
Her small room was gorged with heat,
and there were no windows.
She'd take off everything
but her pants,
and take the pins from her hair,
throwing them on the floor
with a great noise.
Like Crete.
We wouldn't make love.
She'd get on the bed
with those nipples,
and we'd lie
sweating
and talking of my best friend.
They were in love.
When I got quiet,
she'd put on usually Debussy,
and,
leaning down to the small ribs,
bite me.
Hard.