what a thing, waking
to see your shoulder blades
in silhouette
your dark hair a tangle
the rise and fall
knowing, for the moment,
we’ve chosen
this, here, now
cluster of daisies
in an empty espolón
bottle, tee shirts and
socks strewn haphazardly
across the hardwood
floor, bearing witness
if it’s true, like they say,
that God doesn’t want this
for two boys, then why
did he hand us these
wee hours, simple truths
in honest light, why
does your hand remember
its way to mine while
you sleep?
michael king 