Sweet things, Soft things:
Fingers brushing clean counters.
A skirt spread neatly over a lap.
People dreaming together, in a morninglit room where a fan blows,
And riffles papers.
Closed eyes.
Cats' paws.
Quiet steps mindful of a sleeping house.
None are important,
They are hardly original.
But often I close my eyes,
Let soft light filter through the capillaries,
And dwell on them so that I may
Escape that which is bitter,
That which is hard.