Morning Song

There is a rose on the table

The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window

I lay with one knee raised

My skin is lonely

That golden-handled door we taught to open

(while we were kissing, Love,

while your thigh won the wet from me)

Has taught itself to close.

A bird sings in the garden

He knows nothing

Or everything

He sings like a perfect fool

For me.

There is a rose on the table

The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window

My breasts are lonely

My hands are lost children

Far from home

I lay on my back, as if you might rejoin me;

I study the stucco walls and the ceiling,

Here in this lonely warm bed

Near my lovely rose,

That traitor door,

And the singing of that lonesome

Idiot

Bird.

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