Soft through the curtained air
her thin breaths—communicating
to him distinctly
the impractical romance—of late sleeping;
and then—upon finally beginning
to stretch
and begin shedding
her gruff dreamy feeling of
big armadillo skin
for more pliant—
and yet
still more
unrealistic things—
day-old apparitions of seedy hard bread
with holes up each of their middles,
for example,
and lugubrious brown
streams of
coffee pouring legato
from giant steaming pitchers—he resolves
that to love her—here,
now,
with abandon
as wild
and weird
as her
impulsive
and
impetuous nature—
would be far, far
less risky
than to ever—dare endeavor not to.
