tawny under evening trees.
Thick dusk sticks close to the patio
like hot clothes to be cast off.
The night's warm breath comes from her.
That explains her lure. It is hard
not to look, not to run
my hand along her slender spine,
gently, as crickets rub their legs
together in soft symphony.
It will not happen. But the thought
will hold me till we part, and longer yet,
late alone in the dark, pacing the floor.
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