To Be Sleeping

Tonight you, my lover, are finally sleeping.
December wreaks havoc on all things circadian.
In such limb-slunged slumber your bedded body swallows its rhythm
I can hear you calling out dreamy-mouthed
Lips sticking & parting:
“Refuge.”
Breath quickens 

with the blanket slipping,
unraveling rhythms circadian.

The two of us spend our winters trading insomnia & adventure.
tonight I am watching you, my lover, slumber
I look up to find the tongue of morning brushing my body,
the highways already cradling their early workers to more productive dreams.
School buses are making their pickups.
The city belongs to birds and dumptrucks
and my lover's pushing freckled dream breath
back and forth over the bed.

March

This wind kicks wet dust into my eyes
and forces the gears into an unwilling down-shift.
The ocean is still cold in the throat,
bristles mist from the wavetips
coughs dizzy seagulls up gravity's backside.

The sky is awash with oysters and dead nuns;
sallow bulges falling in and out of love with the sun.
The colors are losing their religion
slipping through every kind of light.
Reflections get sunk in open-mouthed puddles
the rain shivers on either side,
hesitates,
then makes one or two wet stabs at the sidewalk.

January

In winter you hang springs and jewels from your listening.
The mechanism tightens
and the shivering sky takes a gulp of distinction.
The empty trees sharpen
like a woman's angry eye.
The air splits and spiders into cracks
and fluidity
(making the most of possible escapes)
rushes out of being.