you broke the dawn ceilings
dragging the roots
of midnight's trees
behind you
bearing yourself upward
and being born
by the feathery silence
of the canopy

the leaves made the light
sidestep around my eyes
as you created fractal notes
above me

sometimes
this would go on for days
until a telephone
a bang on the wall
or some such
would yank me back
to the mundane page
of skin and sweat

not that i don't
enjoy these
too

sometimes
during the orange lines
of dawn
i would stare at
your blued eyelids
heavy and careless
and sometimes troubled
other times
i would study your back
or
the curve between
your neck
and your small shoulder
the pores there

a single phrase
runs wildy
in my palms
singing:
"there is nothing
so important
as your breast
in my hand"

dear anna
there are no gods
or goddesses
that i have witnessed
in this world
but on some mornings
your snoring
is as close to prayer
as i'm likely
to get