Vlucht Nach Vorn
                                                              for Penelope

Frigid rooms at night take their toll
on a soul in arctic planes where music dies
and birds full of song cannot sing.
Daylight is no relief when night waits
in unavoidable ambush.
(Does the Lamb anticipate slaughter?)

The warmth of you,
busy, in and out of underwear,
the passing of perfumed flesh,
glimpsed by loosened towel,
and your smile, stir cold air,
ignite a spark in a frozen spirit,
a reminder of womb-warmth
comfort for a foetal mind.

 - Quentin Hogge