Sleeping with you every night
Could never be tedious, no, it’s as marvelous
As the stars and milk you dust my coffee
With each morning, and who but you
Would rise, fill the mighty press, steep my French
Roast with water roiled in an old Wolfgang
Puck kettle you found at the seaside
Thrift store because no one else wanted it
With its chrome and polished wood trim—so 80’s passé— 
People can get pretty snooty, but not us,
Except maybe those moments I’m my own bad
Shell, cracked and spoiling ochre on a burning sidewalk. 
You know, the first time we made love I studied
Your face for a while at a dead dark hour, unconvinced 
You were lovely, your monolith nose and epic jowls,
The unchiseled neck of a passing pelican—but
Aren’t those birds my favorite now? And aren’t I
Framed in my tracks today, watching them
Rembrandt the sky, cooking up shadows
And light, brushing a small, unstoppable fire
Across the heavens, every stroke a masterpiece, really.