I'm reading you. It didn't make sense
to call the Sunrise song an aubade―
lingerie―a brief, transparent veil
was on my mind like an audible dream.
I woke and slept. I didn't know if I
had told you what I thought or how I felt
or where the light in tongues revealed the valleys
of your back. O let me count the ways
the language vibrates me, articulates
an intimacy with your body. When
my nose discerns a set of rhythmic figures,
I smell the soap in the Eugenides book
I'd read. The morning turned the horizon's page
disclosing what the text before concealed.