A bee moves back and forth,
weaving our names into
the early morning sunlight settled
on the window sill. Material light,
silken or liquid in its movement
reveals small dust swirls in the air,
left over conversations of your skin
After making love we sleep,
a momentary death
where we join all our dead.
But unlike them in their dark beds
we wake once more, together
in the late morning’s
yellowed ivory light.