Unreal Conditions

If I dared,
I’d speak of smooth and red-gold skin on limbs
parting in languid anticipation
of urgent, wordless, rhythmic cries,
caused by touching scented, secret places
and tasting salty, quickened slickness…

The telephone saves us both
from bold and dangerous temptation.
And though we talk of other things,
we smile, quite ruefully perhaps,
at hot and liquid might-have-beens -
If I’d dared.