The White Room

White sheets, white pyjamas, white nets on the window:
open for our Italian night.

My eyes are closed. I’m drifting the way I can
when the days are long and the maid is not rapping on the door.
On my eyelids I see the reflection of trees by the river.
They are almost green on black, but I swear they are the same trees
where we drank wine without speaking before we walked back.

Remember what the shopkeeper said:
I have honeymoon prices inside for you.
We laughed at his words which did not offend,
and then locked the door. You said my breasts hum.

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Candyce Lange  would be pleased to hear them