I survey my unfinished room, think of great sketches,
sculptures without limbs, a musical score hidden in a mislabeled box.
Five mornings out of seven days, a single pillow, a radio voice;
today the week ends, our life starts. Your birthday is May, and mine July.
I wake beside emptiness on this heavy-clouded day;
a still tap in the bath, a piano in the corner, a morning waits to be filled.
A few hours traveled in another place; I unpack
luggage from my eyes and remove night shoes.
A jigsaw with bent and missing pieces, a ribcage
of sunlight shows an unswept floor.
I try not to ponder too much on how the sun rises,
not the logistics, but the eternity of it.
A soft, bright breeze stirs the new, confirms the uncertain,
something lost in the evening, pushed up by the descended moon.
When our morning becomes the entire day, we leave the rotation
of earth to its work; his beard shimmers red and gold sparks in sleep and in love.
A stillness in sun-touched branches, I try to model this:
in another flurry of morning we train ourselves to sip tea, and he tells me “write”.
In this world there is a light, and in this light there is a door,
and in this door there is a crack, and in this crack there is a dream.