if there be peace in this

your eyes flash a smile full of sunrise, still
before heat and traffic, before speech
and the day; the soft smell
of your shoulders and my palm
against your stomach, barely

and we are hair and flesh and bone
arranged carelessly parallel,
cracked teacups, quenched campfires;
you curve under my hands
and I fold into you, unsteady and raw

and come morning, I unfold
to your eyes, open slowly
and re-arrange the parts
of this machine, one body, one
skiff of cold ash, barely