Beneath

beneath his hands
the flesh of gentle
eroticism. his woman
a vaporous specter,
a cold spot in his bed.

beneath her hands
are the blankets
that kept her warm,
that keep her away.
her silken tomb
denies her release.

beneath his hands
is the dirt, ground
up. he cringes before
her, golddrunk. he
crawls away, sober.

beneath their hands
are the faces of children,
children who must learn
to listen for quiet days,
for words whispered from
outside the window.