by John Grey
Behind the mist,
beyond the window, the forest,
body murmurs, refutes the
sleepy council of its dreams,
waits to be peeled apart
by an engaging fingertip.
Morning–sun so light and equal to
whatever task I give it–
and I think of the man with everything.
It’s the simple act of her becoming,
when feelings seek out physical reminders,
eyes scan slowly, fill their lungs.
heart fills in for all I might miss.
Her face widens, skin sweetens,
her hair breaks gentle across her face.
My senses close ranks,
examine the tremble of her lips.
I hold her to me,
press until I make it art–
in wavering curtain shadow,
in waxen light,
I’m exposed by deepening glances.
birdsong, trees breathing,
the stammer of a word–
the notes for this
are in the sheets, her cheeks.
I lean over, remember a scent from the last time.
Typical dawn–a half-awake creature seeking out its mate.
Her eyes open. Mine widen
hoping to expose more.
Then ear to mouth,
such loveliness a single breath bestows.
It’s not regret, not remonstrance, nor wind.
It’s just night’s design,
picked apart by daybreak.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Tenth Muse. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories, and River and South.
Hawaii Pacific Review 