Lindsay Rockwell 

First Light

I stand outside your 
window, tapping. You open and kiss 
me with your eyes. Then, you slowly 
unbutton your top two buttons and pause
a long pause. A very long pause

then resume unbuttoning the small 
ivory saucers which, I pretend, your 
God sewed on for you, after they
fell off, making a daft not quite
clank on the floor

In morning’s light your
skin’s all caramel 
I lift my hand, gesture to the
honeysuckle, close my eyes and
yours, inhale the voiceless place

Then, we open our eyes, and you
show me how the map of light,
window then shirt then
button then skin then eyes
lead me to your soul

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