Today I write you from the middle of the bed

watching the sun rise on the wall that’s

opposite our window and

that cat we got,

who still thinks he can catch the shadows

of the wind-tossed branches 

tangled in the linens,

claw and reach with his religious ceaselessness.

Regardless, though, they all remain unmoved;

you knew that.

 

And you run hot at night,

too close, and I

I cannot sleep

with you so always

always close like this,

too hot. So,

so as not to wake you I lie still,

and stare up at our ceiling, 

heavy,

hot,

your sleeping arm across my body.

 

At two —

You wouldn’t know this, but, each morning,

two, like clockwork, irregardless,

no matter which side I have left him on,

he cries and scratches til I let him out.

 

On my way back to bed I catch the tide,

thinking itself alone,

stopping to gaze up at the moon.

 

Hat, Scarf, Glove, Winter Sunglasses,

I have cut my hair

the long hair that you fell for,

cut it off.

And I enclose it here.