Robert Beveridge
we lay in a bed of lace and flowers
the only substantial part the blanket
that keeps the old man wind
from your small body
my hands are warm and I touch you
but (forgive me) they are frail with age
while you my love will never grow old
will always be
young, energetic
beautiful
and inside you maybe I can forget
the rejection the storms the words
that well in my mind each night
spoken by thousands of ex-lovers
enclose me
in your immortal body
of lace and flowers
cast off the blanket
and drape me in the winds
of your nakedness