Ruth

Ruth shifts her silken kneedown limbs over silk,
The silk of downy coverlets and quilts.
Her arms, T-shirted, press breastward, enfolded,
Her poor slight breasts quash nobly,
Her hips scrape, turn over, fingers dance,
Becomes a pensive noble mumbling mood,
Her ass slicks over silks to perch on the edge,
Her lengths of thigh trapped tight together,
As dark as nameless caverns that were never seen,
Herself so perfect, so little, and contained,
Her flacid weak encurled strands recline
Upon the sallow pillow.
Golden rings upon her dumb uncultured fingers,
Her feeble succoured nails,
Her legs, by custom, pressed tight together,
Like dusky battlements never to be
Scaled, engaged, attacked.
She senses such would be a sin,
And sends it on the air,
The intelligent cigarette gesticulations.
She fixes her hair,
Sighs and watches TV.