Maxwell Bodenheim Poems : Your Arms, in Faltering Crescendos

Your arms, in faltering crescendos,
Wander through the room
Tinted with expectation of night.
The room seems a tottering tomb
Through which you roam with hands
Striving to press each form into the shape
Of someone buried beneath you. . . .
Only when night sprays the room with his breath
Do you change to that which you seek.