I've been watching your hair
shift and stuck with sand from the ocean.
The strands smell like
the fresh showers we didn't take and
the exhalations of rain drops
that sighed by the thousands
on their time out clouds miles to the East
while you sunned and I
worried my body in the surf
that chased the air right out of my lungs
with cold pinchy proddy fingers.
This is not fun. The watching, though, is.
Watching the shadows of your dreams turn
like minnows
against the slashing inks of your hair.
Press upright and watch
the veins stand hard
against the red brown skin of my arm.
Shedding the crush and shuffle of sheets
that fold lazy wrong seamed white paper origami
unless properly encouraged
with stern slaps.
I do not try to stretch in the mornings.
There is nothing sporting coming and
I am as uncrumpled as I was
when I lay down.
I bought cheese cloth. It was on sale.
I have been thinking to make breakfast
since the sun dropped by and left.
Things to do. Places to be and all that.
Little hash brown nests with some bits of cheese
hiding in the crisp stabs of dry brushed
sandy brown and tan like little memories
inside little ship wrecks atop little coral reefs of eggs.
