We wake to the gray light glow of a Japanese paper screen-
To rain patter on a bedroom window and iPod ocean waves tossed on repeat.
I roll to my beloved and kiss the sleeve of his white shirt-
Push from the bed and tiptoe to the kitchen.
I scrub the dinner plates-
Peel fruit stickers from the edge of the sink-
I wipe the counter with a wet orange cloth and
Grind Arabica for my beloved, pressing the powder into a Portafilter.
He holds a ceramic cup made in the Ozarks, the steam
Rousing him from his other land-
His eyes are what?
Periods at the end of a favorite sentence.
The words aren’t in a dictionary. (A philosopher friend says nothing is found in the eyes of the beloved, making me wonder how often philosophers receive long, lingering no-explanation-needed, my-cup-runneth-over hugs.)
You gather books and a journal, pens and colored pencils-
Climb back into the downy folds.
You ask Ms. Levertov if we are going to have a good day
And flip all 1063 pages.
Your finger lands on small breasts.
“Let’s stay here,” he says,
“Let’s pretend this is a raft
on the Mississippi River.”
And, when we hunger or need to pee or check the mail,
we will walk on water.