For Kraig
In the low light, your blond
brows feather, weathered
by this new humidity.
I glance them
with my lips, your brow-bone
a shore brine-scented
& damp, where sandcastles bristle
against tides & succumb
to the furrows
of your worry-lines,
undulating in your heat-
frustrated sleep.
You’re out in minutes
every night &
every morning you’re sifting
Bob’s Red Mill muesli into
a teal-rimmed Corelle bowl
before rocking backwards
into the grandfather
chair & cracking open
a commentary.
Today, I toed around
on the cement stairs
for the sneakers I had
flung over the threshold
& looked down to find
the steps swept &
my shoes in a neat row.
Your touch is like
a bejeweled God
feeding a needle into
a petaled throw.