Morning
Because I get up earlier, I enjoy
the quiet pleasure of seeing you
first, still in the shadowed slant
light at the beginning of the day.
I like the curve of you there,
the contours of arm and hip.
I like the slow movement of you.
Your rise and fall, your shifting.
In this blue grain of morning,
before the definitions of our day,
you are the horizon, the first pull away
from myself, a center, a returning.
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