Songbook Poem by Mark Heathcote

Her thighs are a songbook I open,
backstroke, butterfly to an ovum,
a bridge to a chorus
that, in the beginning, is amorphous
but by the end, it is the main performance.
We enact upon a stage
as joint headliners, cooperative friends
in a cast
that accumulates cherub rafters of' little spellbinders.
But what I enjoyed most
was the bridge to a chorus?
That meeting of two operatic lovers
where the music of their inner voices
resided in raptures of heavenly ever-afters.