You make your overtures to the dark,
    taunting the floor with a broad
    brush of a foot. The wood, invisible,
    tenses beneath your heel.

    With one movement, your body lifts
    into a splash of air. Behind you,
    in rumples, the sheets seem voile
    and as quiet as ectoplasm.

    Shapes and angles applaud you,
    but you are deaf, testing instead
    for the depths and shallows. You pick
    your way like a white lie.

    Turning, a wobbly ballerina on the
    rim of a porcelain saucer, you watch
    the way that your lover sleeps.
    You chart her breath,

    and gaze at the gauze of her face,
    her long hair tinkering a pillow,
    her lost hand. You stand, and make
    overtures out of her stillness.

From the book Love Poems