Gossamer Mornings

In the blanding light of the basement blinds:
the couch we squeezed onto at three a.m.,
warmed by the Neapolitan afghan,
husked together like twin seedlings of corn.
The couch cushions all scattered about now,
the blanket pulled off, brown and pink and cream.

I lie staring at the plaster ceiling,
rubbing my scruff beard, recalling last night.
The in-between words, kissing on both sides.
I dream as she sleeps; I dream wide-awake––

white sheets and pillows July summer-strewn,
gossamer mornings, ceiling fan turning,
the night muscles slack in our entwined legs.
Luxurious Sundays of the future.

Now, here, on the three a.m. couch, I turn.
The fog of awakening furls away,
she trails a soft hand through my wicker hair.
Her sun smile: peaceful vespers, daybreak heat.
Hayflower eyes slip closed, our lips flourish
in the blanding light of the basement blinds.

28 Nov. 2004