Interiors
In a furnished room on Quai d'Orsay
the sun glints on our brass bed,
where spread, unclothed and hungry
I stroke your auburn head.
Late afternoon we skirt the Seine
touch hands in a dark café,
grow fat on cake and fragrant tea
carried from old Cathay.
At night this city gathers speed
beneath its map of stars,
as we tangle limbs like dancers
in the painting by Degas.
About this poem
I don't use rhyme much as a rule. This is an exception. A poem about Paris, romance and art.
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"Interiors" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 30 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/177267/interiors>.
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