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This Morning
by Ann Howells

Porous grey shadows spill
ripple over our tousled sleep,
swaddle us in the filtered ice blue
of shallow water.

Two halves of one pajama pair,
we stir—sleep logged,
snub our toes through wool rugs
in blind slipper search.

Our eyes resist dawn and our bed
is warm. Your skin
smells sweeter than unmown fields,
cut stems of daisies.

 

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