Valentine

Light through attic window.
A new day - sunday - has come into play
and we greet it with small, stale breaths; then rise, and move
down into the yellowbrown kitchen of a shallow sunday morning.

Our mouths kiss the lips of coffee cups,
and, tasting smoky, I ignore you for a minute,
preferring the papers and their printed human weakness,
then return myself - like small change - to you.

Now the light is angling, from outside, for us
to curl up again, and be coffee:
mixed and warm; essential in routine.
It wants us, already married, to fall in love.