The game is not the same as they began,
he trussing her with sheeting to the jungle gym,
tickling her to surrender again,
prising the prize of that gem:
a little cry, a breathless little cry,
lying perfect on its bed of groans.
Twist up the password as agreed,
the perimeter stark as the naked grounds
they play in. She dreamed of roughing it
by moonlight, a voyeur’s moon to bite
by, no wolves to rumble her kit,
only shadows, bruises, loops knotted tight.
This is that dream, this is the burn
she’ll learn to savor in her turn.