matched

As I lilt and sway to the noisy fuzz of a biplane’s flight and ponder

the etymology of the word “indicted”

I slide heart-first into other thoughts,

like those of you, sleeping next to me, quiet as a pear.

The shapely mornings we have, the ones that last past the morning trains,

with wisps of steaming coffee and the curling smoke from toaster ovens,

and the hurried ones that slip by in the back of taxis

too.

Were I to shake off all the sleep I’ve ever earned or had,

it still wouldn’t match all the glorious bouts of not-sleeping we do.

Or, also,

the subtle ingenious force of your fingers jabbing my ribs,

tingling my insides and spine something marvelous,

in the lush meadows of our laziest afternoons,

as I rustle your hair and tug at your earlobes,

hold your head in my hands,

sumptuously necking on park benches

without clocks or phones to keep track of us.

There are no arms that hold me the way your arms

hold me.