We used to meet <br />on this corner <br />in the same wind. <br />It fought us up the hill <br />to your house, <br />blew us in the door. <br />The elevator rose <br />on guests of stale air <br />fed on ancient dinners. <br />Your room smelled <br />of roach spray and roses. <br /> <br />In those days <br />we went to bed with Marvell. <br />The wind ruffled sheets and pages, <br />spoke to us through walls. <br />For hours I used to lie <br />with my ear to your bare chest, <br />listening for the sea. <br /> <br />Now the wind is tearing <br />the building down. <br />The sheets are rising. <br /> <br />They billow through the air like sails. <br /> <br />White with your semen <br />holding invisible prints <br />of the people we were, <br />the people we might have been, <br />they said across the country <br />disguised as clouds. <br /> <br />Momentarily they snag <br />on the Rocky Mountains, <br />then rise <br />shredded into streamers. <br /> <br />Now they are bannering westward <br />over California <br />where your existence <br />is rumored.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sheets/
