We started wrongly: you surfed the Net and loved
an early poem in a style so crude
I blushed and stripped it down to a glowing nude
but you prefer the body shod and gloved.
You see more than I do. How you approved,
as I read Proust out loud, of the French prude
who blurred the window when his women screwed
each other; how you were visibly moved.
Last night I read to a responsive crowd
but had eyes only for where you stood
and then for the train window, still too proud
to ask. You answered in bed, it sounded good.
Sounded! We started wrongly when we vowed
candor we walk into and do not crack.