What happens.

What happens, when

the cold morning breath of a foggy night
slips under the covers and over the lips
and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug
to a world that smells of light eucalyptus
and an open balcony door —

What happens.

What happens next, when

the oaken door unlatches to a fresh
newspaper, touching toes lightly, bending down,
unwrapped from carnivorous plastic
laying flat—cups of coffee, cups of tea
light jazz on the bookshelf speaker —

Then, when

sticky plates loosely pile the linoleum counter
next to the deep sink, more cups of tea
autumn birds on autumn balcony hoot softly
the ceiling fan turning, whistles of balcony breeze
caught and drifting,

the work begins
and the work stretches wide —
wide-palmed stretching, circles of destination.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: