Un-Naked, 3:27 AM

She could tell he meant it
when he told her
he liked his women
to be like the
unfinished
poems of Valéry

Lyrically literate
she lay languid on his bed
and allowed her
satin-claret camisole
to retreat slow shoulders.

Extending an arm unpracticed
she knocked his pages
with a fatal smile,
reached for his lit cigarette
exhaled: -
and never told him her name.