You are every poem that forbids me
to write. Under my head,
your heaving chest gently rattles
the nightstand, jeopardizing
all of my possessions which are sliding
toward the edge.

The immanent ticking
of the cat-shaped alarm clock distracts me
from considering your skin
as the heart of an almond,
pure and creamy, like edible satin,

or as a silver bucket of over-ripe cherries
which waits on a country porch
for a child to bring it up onto the swing,
into his lap, and feast
on the tangy meat of the berries.

Every grocer would envy your sleeping body,
yet at the same time
want to wake you up, see your eyes,
and articulate you.