The Dust
How can such an extraordinarily ordinary act as waking,
Followed by my rousing you, from Sunday evening's drowse,
That you might reciprocate my stroking of your smooth body . . .
How can such a quotidian cosmos of moments
Evoke such effusive emotions?
It must have so much more than everything to do
With those measureless dimensions of the devotion we discover,
Having steeped ourselves in a weekend's close-holding.
Each of these yawning Monday dawns
Is a denouement whose coda denotes our sensual parting.
"I hate having to let you go," you sigh, with glistening eyes,
As I slip from the bedsheets, wash up, get dressed,
And, shouldering my attaché, open the kitchen door, disappear,
Leaving, on your cheeks, my tears,
No other visible vestige that I've been your guest.
And yet . . . and yet, perhaps I've left behind a second echo,
Another whisper, tender essence of my presence,
Which, in the sun shafts sifting through your window blinds,
Will shape the dust your warm breaths stir, into visions of me —
Living epiphanies that will never leave our love.
08/29/11 - (1)
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