Sunlight on Rue Saint-Augustin
The flat is full of sunlight, too full of sun
for a morning after French wine and
cherry blossom footsteps
atop streets dark with rain. We lie above
the city sounds, hover above horns
and hollers and the motorcycle thrum.
I brush the lines on your forearm, ink fresh,
the artist wound, healing just begun and
all the time it will take to get there.
Your towel hangs on metal rods in the bathroom,
electric heat hidden hardwired behind the wall,
dust motes swirling above the sill
and we are not leaving this bed
until the yearning has quieted, your
towel warm and dry.
I could draw the shades, shut
out the day, tongue tracing and
no light needed—but no.
We are not crepuscular creatures
gone feral. We have done nothing
useful. We have done everything.
We will follow this sunlight
all the way down.
When the Light Steadies
I dropped a plate this evening and the crescent slivers cut me
like the moon or a thousand stars.
The kitchen bulb flickered in solidarity, but when the light steadied
I was still alone. This time last year
I was losing you. Those spring winds will never feel
the same. Outside, the birds have fallen silent.
Outside, all my favorite constellations are setting.
