tuesday morning on a suntan bed

When the alarm goes off, the first ones to open their eyes are words, immense eyes God uses to spy on us. Afterwards, the inner doors open, narrow hallways where morning light advances like a fresh-water rivulet. The rest of the order is slightly variable: now I cannot tell whether petals or bells open first, whether my love for you or your love for me opens first, sweet synchronicity of awakening together. Everything alive sooner or later will open, like a premonition: oranges on the marble countertop, color on matter, butterfly unfurling in profile, rose flush on the neck, body opening over body, Why talk about the future? Love is not a straight line drawn in pencil on the calendar: neither going nor arriving nor advancing. Just to open ourselves in delicate circles: You, stone–I, water.

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