Dust motes whirl
in morning sun,
as street babble
blooms,
we lazily turn over
and unfold waking.
Our hands
languidly
dance over
night-ravished
limbs.
I seek refuge
in your soft expanse;
tongues swirl,
cresting rhythms
in slow motion.
We
receive the day
sprawled
before us,
anxious for voices
to complement
its own,
affirming,
stark naked
light.