It’s 8am, and I have been

in two places all morning:

I have been now,

dorm-room-kitchen, one-room-living,

and a later now,

picket-fence-cottage, upstate-backwoods-life,

sitting on the island

in our warm-countered kitchen

while the bread rises

and you sleep.

I am dancing, headphones

over my ears, a silent

disco for one in the single-digit

morning. All the rest slumber

and I am soft-footed

with not disturbing them.

In my later now,

my hand in my pocket,

wearing a thumbprint

into the shock of velvet,

soft-fingered,

whispering touch.

The sun is the same,

in now and not-

yet-now. I know you

still are sleeping,

and I hope I am

not waking you

with daydreams.