We’re a french press in morning. Slow drips
Excavate details of dreams and wishes,
Made true beneath sweet blues
Of clouded duvet.
We’re a farmer’s market in afternoon. Lazed hands
Find each other through floral profusions,
A vibrant orgasm
Colored in plain view.
We’re cupped hands of evening. Offered company
Rests side by side in the hammock of us,
No more words than needed,
We’re original vintage, baby.