Sonnet for six a.m.
By Colleen Barry
The sheets are white and rising, falling slow
and steady over bodies slack and bent,
our legs like gum. the night is dealt this blow—
how obvious, smooth—the careful breeze and scent
of rain on gutters, pavement, windows bare
and glowing chests undone by dawn are more
like sideways basins, open mouths in air
where tiny balmy sighs are caught, then pour
the shade of blue that deepens under eyes
like breathing—sleepy lover’s breath, ours, now—
it colors arms, the smalls of backs, our thighs,
this morning; softly starts a day with how
the heaped strain of yearning masses sleeps
while, apart, hushed, warm—it seeps.
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