Good Morning Sunset

for S.

How to begin with beauty, which is
truth, or so say the poets— How the day

illumines cream patches of carpet, and I lie
there, purring through each fantasy—

If my eyes will open to the installation of
your absence, which I have been given, as

bees are given to the final flora in autumn,
or garlands to girls and wedding guests—

How best to meet you where
our shadows converge, at a slant

in the hours’ cool tongue, drowse of gold
coins resisting gravity— If I cannot cut

clear through fog’s probabilistic ruses,
October’s negative degrees,

without a gaze to you-ward— A veil belies
the poet who claims to lie there. Still, a presence

in the room alerts enough to concede kissing air.
Scores I conduct nightly, no, dawnly, waving

the wand, tender command, to bring you
off from where you lie. In waking, the want

pours from me, quicksilver. And of sound mind
I wait for hesitant heat to rise—

This morning in the shower I kissed my own
shoulders as I might yours—right, first, then left.

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