Their breasts and thighs are clear
masking a sixty watt bulb
and their fleshy tones seem real.
He stands at the entrance switching
the light on and off to watch
their shapes appear and disappear.
He is drunk. Very drunk. With each click
their shadows flicker like moving pictures,
in and out of focus, as if dressing, undressing.
She is stretched out on the leather sofa
her eyes closed, for her the light changes
from black to red to black to red, to black.
Dorothy Bryant Poetry Prize
Kent and Sussex Poetry Society Portfolio 2003