Distant seagulls,
the gentle purr of
the electric milk float.
Blind footsteps down
on the street below.
A cold wind blows
off the Lough.
If I open my eyes
will you be there?
Salute me with a blurry
smile. Half-here, half in the
pre-dawn twilight of running imaginations.
Talk. Small talk, deep talk, fast talk. No
talk. Still.
Stare at the ceiling
listening to the world
slowly animate around us.
I map your epidermic topography:
undulating hills of skin, folds,
moles, birth-marks, stretches, wrinkles -
all your beautiful flaws of
human imperfection.
We could stay here for an infinitesimal time
in our Ikea flat-pack time machine.
This is our Morning Intimacy.
