love is
silence wrapped in the threads of
fourty year old silk and
sustaining a scent,
wanders to settle where it pleases
without sight to catch it.
a thousand tiny red flowers
drawing tears from linen and
the dull lingering presence of smoke
to wash the morning from the day.
velcro eyelids
blinking early afternoon
in tune with a radiator
blowing temperate air at sixty-five degrees warm.
beneath the stains and scars
kept silent all these years
by immediate concerns and
distant ideals,
youth and skin sleep through alarm clocks
and hot water never felt so good
before noon.