Backbone

Twice I sought to make love to your backbone,
the length of it confusing me,

my eyes leaned on an old radio,
vintage 1970,

immobility had come in the mail,
bereft of round postage stamps,

the limp arms of the room
on a glass sofa,

indeed, I wished to spill my love on you,
and find you shouting with respect,

let dawn regret tomorrow
while we carried on.