I Always Awake at 3 a.m. the First Night in Santa Fe

I see your body in the static of Picasso’s Blue Period, your hand distorted
into a midnight mitten, my breasts clouds’ shadows over a mesa or the
valley between
White Elephants. I put my ear-cone to your chest to hear your heart

over new blood, tumbling it through the ventricles. I still haven’t told
you I love you,
but we both know I do. Just like the grandfather clock’s pendulums, or
the old rolltop desk
in my wing in my grandparents’ home, dusty yellow dirt roads, knew I
loved them, too.

It’s easy and hard to first accept love, as when an unfamiliar creature
out longer than you, to breathe in time beside you on a couch in the
sun streaming in through the skylight illuminating his fur of yellow
ochre curls.

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