Today I'm going to turn to you first.
Why? Because I'm still sleepy, and
it's gray out, a lowering atmosphere,
the wind cold, tunneling through our
thin coats. I need you next to me,
pushed against my chest, burrowed
into my white skin. Papers can wait:
letters, books, classes to finish. You,
dear poetry, hide somewhere behind
the clouds, only revealing yourself in
bursts, showering golden light on me in
dreams that vanish with waking.