Rising Before the Sun

 

Before the ink-stained horizon

spits out the day, I quit the bed, 

ghost-soft, leaving the dreamer untroubled,

to cross the cold tiles

that dream of Spain underfoot.

 

In the cupboard of hours,

where thin joys stack like paper,

I leaf through the silent offers of minutes.

 

The hour pre-dawn—

silk unraveled—

should you risk an embrace.

 

I bewitch the water, 

coaxing it to kiss grounds black

as a scorched forest, a ritual

in the dark, somewhere between patience

and a prayer, while dawn is just a thief

at the eastern window, burgling the night.

 

Then back with a cup brewed dark, 

to where we, the bed, and the quiet

keep the world at bay.

 

She stirs, her leg finds mine,

the quiet pulse matching the rhythm

of my sipping in the gray before morning.