There is alchemy, to be sure,
in small hours of morning.
No one sees it but a few,
with the thick dark humming
electrically as people
sleep despite the strange stars
that are out and the few people that
are out and the cold and wet
air that waits for the sun
to crest hills.

I don't see that much anymore, though.
The morning I see is crowded
to capacity with blurred eyes,
awake, but not really, and it's
just alright then. It's alright
becuase it has to be.
It's alright for now.
I feel the afternoon.

Sometimes it sounds like bones
hitting other bones. A fast gait,
a first-look at the morning
through half-lids and light
not pouring in so much as escaping
through the open bedroom window.

Sometimes it sounds like sand
pouring on sand. An expected thud,
water running in a garden outside
our window. Our room is too warm
and the heat doesn't escape through
the open bedroom window.

But here we are: Sometimes,when the darkness
shakes me out like a rug and I awake to
the sound of you living in sleep, I breathe
a sigh that stretches out over all the houses
like a moon.