--- R U T H   D A I G O N

It is enough to lean against
the fabric of your flesh.
It is enough to lie
in the domestic morning.

It is enough to watch light
expand through windows
rising and falling
between our bodies on this bed,
this room this continent.

We grow wise watching leaky faucets,
faded wallpaper, mismatched socks.
The coffee boiling on the stove
prepares us for the network news,
shopping malls, miracle cures
and tomorrow always sitting on our bed.

But in this rush of years,
we have not lost the pure imagined past,
the here-it-is, the pitch, the pinnacle
of time shining from within a million
summers or the music so intense it disappears.

We invent a lifetime out of small things,
free the air between our fingers,
diagram the stars, dream them into
daylight and admit the future
which is here, always here
like a clock that runs forever.