What time is it, sweet? The alarm is chirping
but our bodies are dark with sleep, and heavy
as if we're running for the uptown bus.
Habituated to hours of daylight saving,
our dark bodies are slow to become body,
slower, in the new dark, to become us.
This is your chest, firm, hairy, and your chest
tells me this crook of feeling is my hand,
hair-tickled fingers, muscle-matching palm.
And this nail brush scratching down to my, yes,
crotch, this gentle catch, it is your hand.
You are the morning's first mindful alarm.
The door opens. We settle in our seats
and try to catch our breath with all that running.
Familiar places, people also, flash
past--tall plane trees, homeless men, cross streets--
stones to an ascetic, to artists stunning,
to unobstrusive love, first, light, then, ash.