A Good Day

Are you aware outside the sun yawns? These minutes of dawn
anticipate the world: breakfast, the shoes, transport, money—
all things linear before noon.

Bubbles never hurt:
the round outer skins, how the hand slips in, the tight gasps
of a dozen pops, the slow slide of a plate

and skin on skin, I have the run of his leg, his foot on my lips;
he gets a clean bottom and I get his eyes, recognition of
him in me, of me in him

and later, just for a moment, I close my eyes, pretend I am walking
through forests heavy with unfallen rain rising green on the trees
and then I lie among grass and bugs and I sleep, and I sleep

until I strip garlic smooth and bare then chop
only stop to lick my fingers
pretend I am cooking for God

then, when the sun is gone, only darkness will clothe us
as we shrug off the day with thundering shudders;
nothing more than tiny aftershocks of ancient earthquakes,
quakes we bear, quakes we hold.