(First published in the June 2013 Vol. 2.3 of Stone Highway Review)
Mornings slip through our fingers, we lay
hammock-bound in vanilla summer’s heat—
you keep telling that myth; in your bed, your painkiller sleep,
and I read Proust stories aloud to the dancing trees, dreaming of Normandy.
Days pass with cumulus clouds, red wine, puppy cuddles,
rain and sadness that seep under the window and swell the sill.
You have been running and running and at night my fingers seek
the new fibers of muscle that pull under your soft skin
like the standard vesture of ships.