SKAGIT

Fog in the low valley,
far west of the people.
She rolls in, misting
shiny red tulip heads.
Then, that sun tucked in
behind ruffling mountains;
He slowly rises by 5AM,
as though induced
by some erotic dream.
And she, spread over his bed,
is burnt away by golden kisses;
Until there are no remains
but the dripping petals,
the flexing mud,
and the people taking photos
of what had all at once been
the heavens and the earth
making early morning love.

Later, there would be cups of coffee,
plates of eggs, a waitress with a gimpy leg.
By all accounts,
it was a fine day to escape Seattle—
where if the fog doesn’t burn away,
all love, hope, and ambition surely do.
It’s days like those in Skagit
that keep me awake on days like these;
Days without sun.
Days without dew.
Days without her.
Days like this day;
Waking up, stepping out from bed
and noticing with naked toes
that her cat has shit on the rug.
My god, the things people will put up with
for the obscene pleasures of early morning love.