It is Sunday early summer. The close thunder rolling.

We two beneath white sheet. I breathe the scent of you.

Rain slaps the windows.

Each thing a necessary part of this picture.

…The storm warning

…Apparent closeness

… Wife in her place.

This is American Gothic.

Months you withdraw. Incremental.

Measurable. Away – yes.

But not, you say, to any other.

Reassurances quick.

So long I have known you.

Your red-hot desire.

Never have I known it

to be without object.

So the object has changed.

You say not yet I feel the shift.

It is Sunday, early summer.

The rain slaps at the window.

I rest my head on your chest.

Smell the leafy-scent of rain

as it rises to our room.