the art of loving through frosted glass

voyeurism by any other name?

6:28 – I’m stationed in the courtyard.

punctual, 2 minutes later, she appears

framed in the bathroom window, undraped, her lines from

breast to hip splashed on to the glass by

the motion of her hands soaping across her shores.

I watch unwavering her morning matinee

until I hear the whistling train,

rush to take my appointed seat,

her form, still warm behind my eye,

sustaining me through the prismed day,

and at end when the magic of the maths I play

dims, I conjure up her splendiferous curves,

this woman etched in frosted glass,

and trembling, piped by tube and train, hasten home

anticipating the meld of her lines with mine

and she, my love of twenty years, waiting.