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 with mine.
After making love we sleep -a momentary death
where we join our dead.
But unlike them, in their dark beds
we wake once more
together in the late morning
yellow ivory light