With morning, and you
still in your pajama bottoms,
where night ends its dog-nose chill,
night with the prizefighter look,
night with eyes like a safe
that will never be unlocked,
night with teeth like the light
backing into our knees.
Night with hands, needles, violins,
a mouth of wet sand—and dawn,
like you, sliding on a white t-shirt.
Because We Will Not Always Be
When your eyes are too old to read,
and books cease to swoop and attack
(like the child free from the stoop
leaping into crowds of pigeons),
think of me; nature,
cruel in its blazing craft,
will turn my arms to dirt.
I will turn myself into rain.
I will stand on the edge
and shake out the trees for you.
I will open a small sea for you,
and put my ear to the highest window
to see if it compares to you.