We lie together in a gifted bed
knowing the alarm is set to sound,
your thighs a seat I'm settled on,
mine wrapped warmly round your hand.
We burrow in the minutes that remain
before the clock will cut in to announce
to peel apart.
Shall it be me, or you,
who first must break,
get up from our given place, depart
its dear embrace?
More poetry: Ten Poems by Orna Ross