The Velvet Weekend

Eating velvet with you

in a tired motel

where the velvet is the vessel

of quiet obsession

And the inlets carved across your cheeks

are also in my hands

my mouth, my belly

There are weekly rituals

we perform, moving

with practised steps toward some place

our wrists have brushed before

Erring on the sycophantic as we fill

the other's throat

with the shapes it needs

to be full, to know velvet.