2.

This morning my urge to draw you deepens
when rusty fingers call for purpose.

In our room there are books and stones
and things practicing stillness for months
or maybe years, wearing powder and silk,
the layers of time.

Shades lighten
on your graying chest
where I place a paper.
One hand feeling your torso
the other sketches.

Unstirred in your nakedness
you clothe me with tedium,
and I
waken
cover your thighs.

Rise to make tea,
boil water a hundred times;
make love a thousand times somewhere.
Now cool to touch,
it is late afternoon before I drink.
Long, shiny leaves resting abundant
in amber liquid.

Bitter.