Stretched together spine to spine,
vertebrae an old folk art wooden child's puzzle,
the kind you would get in Asheville, North Carolina,
dog to woman, as the sun creeps in.
Light's fingertips brush eyelids
inviting them to lift,
which, once done, introduces day's discomforts
to the fleeting night.
Her hand reaches, settling on his fur,
making his head lift, nose checking air.
And he follows her down the stairs
curling up nearby while coffee brews.
She charts last night's calls from worried patients
and studies poetry.
Maybe William Carlos Williams did this too.
Sun up, two cups drunk,
she moves into action,
into clothes and shoes, light t-shirt
brushing spine and ribs.
He already has his clothes on,
always prepared for this very moment,
uncurls like a spring released,
awake.
For the first time or seven hundredth time
or the last time.
A precious, mundane mystery,
how she can never fully get the sand out of her shoes,
or off of his tight curls.
7/3/18
Morning 7/3/18
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