there are four owls in bed beneath twilight stuttering,
fluttering their wings and cooing
like someone who knows or has known the maker of such a thing as light.
there are bruises in the air. divine black and blue and yellow
and purple amethyst glittering on the shelf two feet above
our pillow topped mattress where you toss and tangle knit jersey sheets
figure eight style around your feet.
there are kaliedoscope eyes on eight tiny wings,
crocuses & antonyms. downy vibrations. hands in tight spaces. god. the arrival of ink.
stains on thighs on curves on lips. i lick what i can not eat.
ingest dust must move to keep this bubbling contained.
your hand underneath my pillow analyzes the space where my head has slept.
i kept murmuring throughout the night, contemplating
star quakes and shine. divine. there is stickiness in the air.
raffia unwinding. two sisters dangling their feet
on the edge of our oak headboard. one an aunt.
the other a mother and suddenly the sound of someone waking
before the dream has stopped.

( i wanted to wrap this up in a poem but poems tend to get messy. so i'll leave it at this:

i love you

w/ no black & white sketch to accompany the morning thought.)