Two more accomplished sonnets to insure that you have a television-free weekend:
Sometime Lovers
These two were lovers, one of those weekend slips
you hear about. They shared a room, undressed:
he liked the way she stroked his swimmer's chest;
she craved the way he praised her breasts and hips.
Oh, years ago, a lapse the young commit.
His sagging pecs distend his starched white shirt;
her thinness barely swells her blouse and skirt.
Each wonders if the other thinks of it.
These days they meet up unexpectedly
in social settings once or twice a year
and share a room as strangers, and share the fear
that if they catch each other's eyes they'll see
the selves they were reflected from afar --
unbearably -- compared with what they are.
--Richard Wakefield
French Braids
While one hand is content to touch, admire
A balanced, careful weave--preserve for viewing
The beauty and the boundaries of desire--
The other hand is busy at undoing.
The quiet hand counsels restraint; afraid
To wreck the composition of composure,
It's wary of destruction just for fun.
The other wants to slip between each braid,
To tease apart the strands, let run, spill over,
Release, unbind, what was so neatly done.
Your urgent kiss decides which hand is played.
A gentle pull brings argument to closure.
Surprised, my hands attempt to catch your hair:
It falls the way the rain lets go the air.
--Robert Crawford
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Threaded Mode
