It was nights like these:
where the summer chill swept off the lake,
and brought me to the low crackling fire
in the stone den,
competing tastes of
pond **** and pink champagne,
when I wondered
if her mind was more beautiful than her body.
When I'd contemplate the fire in her eyes
as they lit up
like an army of lightning bugs
in a desolate field at dusk
as a storm swept in,
I'd wonder at the friction moving her heart.