so I can keep the light on, read into the small hours,
watch the news at eleven, then drift off, not jerked
awake by your breathing, its mutter and rasp,
the percussive puffs, snorts and snores. But one night,

memory takes me around the corner, and there we are,
leaning against a stone bridge on the Île de la Cité,
tonguing cornets of chocolat noir from Berthillon,
the sun pouring out of the clouds like the saxophone's
golden notes from the street musician on the curb—

And I am back, under the quilt, cotton in my ears,
curled tight, belly to spine, the rain playing jazz
on the roof at midnight, something small and steady
and mundane, o this holy life.

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