The “4” is a woman with her arm
buttressing her crooked back. The “0,”
a breast, still rounded and cupped,
waiting to be touched by her husband
as he lights a candle on the nightstand.
She watches the flame sway and bend
while the light creates a balance of shadows.
How quiet they are, the two of them
approaching this silent age. Her curves still
amaze him. The light quarters them into
equal parts radiance, equal parts desire,
the fine gradations, the parsing of glow
and gesture, how the room encloses them
in this hothouse, these forms doing nothing more
than following their functions.