blue and gold curtains, which spill persistent breeze
enough to ascertain its nautical origin and impede
not the dawn's slow but unavoidable advances.
On the now-unfolded futon, disheveled silk
sheets capitulate to the shape of her pale
breasts as they greet the day's arrival;
her nipples cast perfectly synchronized sundials.
Oh, would that they were but clocks whose
hands my fingers could rewind-
But, look, she smiles and motions for my
marveling to cease.
All sense of time evaporates when there's
sunshine in her eyes.
©2010 Richard Saunders
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