This Morning

I awoke this morning thinking:
sunlight through the blinds feels like
your fingers exploring my lips,
the bridge of my nose,
a kiss by proxy on the apple
of my cheek

The rumble of your car engine
chuckle while I whisper

five more minutes
and

yes
and

Yes.

Peace, poet

Each of us like you
has felt this surge
the rolling tide
in ceaseless cycle
demands we spill
jellied hearts
tangled fronds
sea-picked spines
upon an unforgiving shore.

Again

How perfect it will be
The poetry I’ll write
When I begin to write poetry
Again.

Tease

I tease my toes

through a pool of sunlight

watching the wake

ripples left behind

in motes of dust

Time

Hands sweep around
and in that circuit
we spent a lifetime.

Thoughts in Half Song

Is the peach sweeter

when dimpled by your fingers

or when your teeth pierce its skin?

On the Loss of a Child

I will make a poem of this:
coffee so dark
the cream
is a dull
roiling
grey;
a sink
breathing
mossy fumes
but I won’t notice
for at least another day.

Echoes lurk in
converging angles
linking what is to
what might have been.

If I don’t look
I won’t see
the empty bed,
the empty bed
in the
extra room.