night the idée fixe—that she was pure—
would censure yearning; only God could know
from whence such a fantastic thought sprang. Scared,
church-invited, there, I only felt free.
She wore the thinnest robe—and less was more—
as, from her pad, the second floor of Faux
Apartments, she was looking down at me,
towel wrapped around her drying hair.
She kept me waiting while I came there then.
I crossed my arms and legs—oppressed—repressed,
shielding her from her personal effects
from dimness in her foyer; while that door—
that opening that opened on her nudity—
proclaimed that she wanted virginity.