Outside, the sky is almond.
A conciseness to the air
is brisk to touch the skin
and glaze the windowsill with morning condensation.
The honeyed sun insists,
makes the bedsheets lace
where last night’s tea glimmers like pennies in standing-water pools,
like wishing fountains
this morning’s balanced cups on white ruckled sheets.
On the desk capsized books like little roofs,
Paris on a tabletop,
and postcards pinned by the breeze to the wall.
Shirtsleeves on the chair,
sweetly billowed pirate sails,
fastened by a cool suspended poppy teardrop paperweight.
Two battered pairs of shoes
softened, baby-leather toes
and clacking soles
lined up like tin soldiers side by side
amid the padding of bare feet on tiles in yesterday’s bright evening,
body caught against the sun,
eyes made deep with light.
Sleep, strewn out like this
below the wire-frame arches and white-curtain columns
between the dust, the glass, and greenness
until the sun is orange,
for it is only summer once.
