six a.m.

(if this silence means
anything at all) it is
the lull between half-
shadows and the dawn;
the pause before feet
touch gravel; the
moment before an
alarmclockcat awakens:
the third hand of a salvador
dali clock suspended in
nonmovement.
it is the morninglight
pallor of your skin in slumber;
my fingers teasing
the redbrown curls of
the dog’s coat, awake and
offering the morning news-
paper still concretecold from
the doorstep.

(you stir, softly, still in your dreams.)