THE VIRGIN DAWN

From just one eye
still crusty with night’s fog,
I watch you breathe, all
smooth crescendo, balanced pause.

Burnt-orange slivers flash
corn silk-yellow,
and Tinkerbelle upon a dingy wall,
while that unruly ficus rakes
semaphore against window’s pane.

This half-world nest--
cotton plate tectonics,
warm vanilla skin--
imbued with the scent of
our nineteen years.

I linger, calloused hand
cupping soft breast,
as day’s new light
joins me to you,
and the virgin dawn.