(poem from september '06)

it was getting on four in the morning
maybe even half past

and a tiny spot of light crept in
through the window
long before I drew down the blinds

this patch of golden light—
sunrise, streetlamp, who knows—
rested there
on your bony shoulder
in our warm, dark room

and left an imprint there
in the shape of a dorsal fin
or the inside of a pocket
that maybe once held pennies
or dimes

and I thought
how beautiful you were
your eyelids shut,
hair wisping across your features

how delicate,
with that strong jaw
and so very many elbows

and I held my breath
so my rattling coughs would not
shake the bed
and wake you

and I wondered
how much will I forget
when the sun comes up
will I remember these gentle words
your pigeon curves

the way your lips pucker
as you sleep