This modern chair, its mocha leather cracked
and pale from sixteen years’ benign neglect,
supports four decorator pillows stacked
upon a nightgown sleeveless, oval-necked.
The creamy cotton rumples on the chair,
its shadowed drapery as smooth as milk.
Magenta, silver, blue, and yellow, square
and oblong, top it in velour and silk.

She angles on the bed and hears the man
converse about enlightenment and love,
but all she gives a mind to is the scan
of fabrics in their scatter. Plump above
and flat beneath, that textile edifice
is more compelling than her lover’s kiss.