you

the pursuit of
your leisure is the
oxygen of my love:
your untensing
your fists released
your loins gone back to meekness

and our repose
is not unlike
being drowsy in the
sun of an open window
on a day
meant for labor

yours is a metaphor
found unfurling
in the language
of your limbs: they speak
in rising waves
of a tidal pool

bees tending to their
peonies below the
window
are lovers tending loves
after all
and you tend me

the waning light that
passes into darkness
is the definition
of spells; the magic is there
in a thin line that evaporates
and you're asleep

i with a hand cupped over
the place between
parted limbs
find a warm comfort
in the measure of
the days between us

age can be
a supple haven
between two old
lovers whose
fingers find no fault
in the familiar

i love the curve

of you

in these nights

those small

small small

hairs on the tailbone

and your

breathing

into a pillow