Thursday, July 8, 2010
But was not an angel
Or a cloud
(though I can drift far from terra firma).
I was simply in a hurry
And it was handy.
My windows are small
They let in just enough street and moon light
To make out general shapes--
My flower vases.
You lay with your head against my chest, your bare back to the room, and I said,
"This is the desk where I write my poems.
These are my books,
And this is where I sit dreaming, afternoons, when I am free."
You heard none of this because you had fallen asleep.
You left a pink coral lipstick stain on my shirt,
In the spot you had both blemished and blessed,
A little above my heart.