The sunlight
does not breathe on your skin:
it is your skin, the dust,

the specks dancing upon
a blank board. And flaking onto

one dawn foot-print I slip
my limbs between slow, loving
your warm, caramel crooks.

How you rooted yourself into
morning’s peak, and I
am moonlight in
his last nocturnal slumber –

I say you are lit like a
home, not a cloudburst or star

and settle each particle into
porcelain. Cups for two
as if it will fill me up,

swinging inside
my belly, your love is enough
light for the both of us.