By Alec Prevett
Eyelids in their stillness clutching
muddy irises like gemstones.
The sun, its own eye not yet wide, peeking
through the curtains to gently rouse us.
Your hair tousled and shooting
in directions that will embarrass you.
Flannel sheets in disarray swaddling
us like children tired and pure.
Café Au Lait:
Those freckles large and small unwavering
on those talcum seas, your skin.
Shaded lips, smeared and parting
against my shoulder, as if to whisper no,
morning is not yet.