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.