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?

Twin stars

Flames

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.”

 

Yes.

 

And, when we hunger or need to pee or check the mail,

 

we will walk on water.