Two Poems

Susurrus of Sheets, Goodbye

He leans across his arm, peeks
at her hose-crotch bed-height,
her breasts doubling over.
It's no artist's pose, feet in a basin,
pin shivers in pointillesque,
but the hair she holds off her neck
sends heat into him. Otherwise,

color and motion, the day's
global positioning ratchets
into place with a purse click.
Sweet, she says into the near dark.
She could mean the sudden breeze
except he catches her hand
against his rough cheek.

Wooly Bully

Matty told Hatty about a thing she saw.
—SAM THE SHAM AND THE PHARAOHS

Something is too late,
her walk, her look?
Those in the know know

she could fix it with effort,
the transparent lie.
She could walk further

but she leans away from the path,
she stops to check the time.
How do you change it?

Her spouse tries out
an answer. There,
in the air, rushing

toward them at a fixed
rate, comes the sound of a sound—
watch it now, watch it.

Terese Svoboda