There was this girl and

There was this poem,
but I suppose the girl came first:

came to me
on Sunday evenings,

late and heavy with
lust and other things

and I studied both,
ran my fingers over

their bodies, not at first
but after a drink or two.

Deep in that apartment
the lights were orange, low

or off. My fingers traced
twist and line and couldn’t grasp

either completely, talking  lazy words.
They both hung around for at least

a winter and after I couldn’t smell
anything but the dead,

dusty odor of the furnace.
I perceived words

leaning over  me and her
or on the poem, inexhaustible.