THE HEROINE

While I poured the merlot

      she told me she dreamed of being

           the heroine in an Ayn Rand novel



I stopped pouring

      to brush her cheek

           her love warming my fingertips

　

　

A SONATA IN THE AFTERNOON

I watch you play the piano,

each note peals like the laughter of angels



Your eyes close as you succumb

to your musical muse



Trance-like, each key is mesmerized

by your fingertips as soft as spring petals



The sun baths your face, your hair

in sprays of saffron



intertwined with the sonorous sigh

consuming the room and nurturing my fantasies



to break free and imagine

you are playing my lust



the way you play the sonata,

with daunting improvision and without remorse