It is Six-thirty in the Morning
by Michael Escoubas

my right arm slides beneath her back,
finds her right shoulder;
without thinking she turns–
we meld as in a recipe for love.

Her palm cups my left shoulder,
her breath on my cheek
would not disturb a milkweed pod
gone to seed. Light sneaks in through

bent Venetian blinds, snuggles
like a kitten, assuming it has
every right to intrude. Thus,
we are three-in-one, a trinity of sorts,

swaddled each into the other.
Nothing moves nor wants to …
blankets all askew–
as we taste a morsel of eternity.



 

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