From The Trailer Park

Near the bridge in the trailer park,
a man sets up a tent, fumbling in the dark.
A woman unrolls the sleeping bag. They unzip,
shed themselves – a loosening shrug –
step inside each other. Breath:
fingering: blind:
quick. Body shudders,
stuns with its liquid, its cool –

they step back out. It’s very still.
Breath after breath. One thing
draws another. Gently, so gently,
he puts his head against her ribs,
opening a shutter in her skin to look
inside: cathedrals of space, wandering
planets, aisle upon aisle
of stars. She summons all that’s there.

From Loop, by Anne Simpson
Copyright © 2003