I would make a nest for you
in crackling cushions and arms not our own
softer than down, we’d sink us down:
your soft heart and my soft shape.

And we might take our rest there too
flown from opposite ends of the round earth
sapped from the journey and alonesome no more
dozing, we’d smile sleepily at the world outside.

There I would paint Donne’s little room from wall to wall
and draw the curtains tight to the lowest glimmer of the sun
stitch the pillowcase of a book, Shonagon
to sew our threads together and there to wait.

It mightn’t even matter if you ever come –
if half the heart of a home is the building
I will lay open the blinds on my frontmost arches
and wash my breasts of what light might have swept us together.

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