Aubade
I wake easy, hands in the air—barring yet reaching
toward (Yes?) a shroud of flesh—but not from a nightmare.
When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces: a little
breath or I know them by hands alone. It’s better
if we never touch. Then witness as if I’m an offing. But
if we never touch. Then witness as if I’m an offing. But
how would you know? I wouldn’t. And that’s what matters.
