Are there poems everywhere, like Peggy said?
In the morning, when you're awake
first out of three people,
in a room that isn't yours,
you begin to think so.
Silent there, on the bed you are
smooth-legged and bleary-minded
and looking for poetry
between the blind slats where
the earliest light percolates in
to glorify the dust on the windowsill,
or intermingled against the corkboard
with the memories made,
and the memories unmade yet,
or tucked sideways onto the bookshelf
among some lives and loves imagined.
You find poetry finally
in the shadows beneath eyelashes
and in the peeking down
of dream-paths you cannot follow.
It's poetry, too, when the two wake to find you
poem-eyed and wild-haired
against the white and tousled sheets.
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