In a triangle cut out / between two gabled dark roofs / a cloudless sky turns its black back / the night into blue / i open my shuttered crusty windows / to the first of days / where you descend on me / feed me a purpose / a means to move / about and out of doors and gates / with shoulders squared / and a singing want.
At our lips.
What little else can i do / pay tribute to that surge / keep your house clean / lit and swept / your bed ready and full / of novel stairs to unclimb / uncluttered. / Every room willed nominal / in anticipating vacuum for you / me / us / this to enter / and yet every mote of dust / sparkles jubilant / through luminous clear shafts / caressing floorboards.
At our feet.