Little Crooked House

Someone's unfurled a stubbled carpet across the room.
Precise hands, laying it just so. The angle has to be right,
you know. And carefully, mundane objects need to be placed
on it: three feet between the lighter and the lamp;
A dead pressed flower laid, ripped of thorns,
By the same invisible hands.

Place your scrubbed foot on this spot here,
That I might see its sole; but the right amount
of skin, dear, the right amount of skin.
The curtains, blue and white, twitch them carelessly aside,
That half a cup of sunlight might creep in.

Over a pint of bottled beer, accurately iced,
The naming of a car, and fingers: fast,
furious, fabulous, heated, glorious
Putting things in their place.
And for two thirds of a moment, laughter
on a face.