Naked fabric brushes pleasure into my skin.
You are warm, and in
you, I find comfort, and in
you, I am perhaps loved.

Your black lines—cascading in tresses
across your body—are
my only home,
with walls
like cleaved earthy grid lines
over a pair of flannel pomegranates.

Lined smoothly on the inside,
a light red, and embracing—hot;
from the wild whiplashes of
the cold I am shielded, in your
woven sleeves.

Through the hours of dark,
under quilted sheets of absent slumber,
I remain in you,
and your supple body and sleeves
wrap around me,
a protective embrace, in which

we are one.