Light through this curtain slips,
—I admit it, a domestic curtain—
but I don’t admit this light; it steeps
unbidden, accumulates, remains
to chase away our time remaining, naked.
So you, smelling of sweet periwinkle,
flash your flush, gymnastic face
with a child’s paintbrush: daub-in dimples,
spray out spry, bold brows and, winking
with both eyes at once, brighten this
tame chamber. Don’t tease the day for failing
to illuminate apace, for showing, slowly,
just more daylit space within a daylit space;
unbidden, it accumulates, remains
to chase away our time remaining. Make it
what you are, this seeping day—lively
and unfiltered—taking pity on its pains
to imitate you. Don’t forsake it
while you wake with me, still holding,
while the form is still, unfolding.
Scrivner's Pyre 