The Secret Lover

by Michael Palma

In the afternoon the women sit
Among teacups, talking among themselves.

The secret lover is in the street
Walking past, straight as young corn.

Their lips purse as they speak of him,
Their knees draw closer together.

In the night the women lie asleep,
Floating to the furthest reaches of their waves.

The secret lover comes into the bed,
Moving in smiles in the buttery silence.

In the morning nothing is left
But a sweeping curve along the sheets.