I love the dust-sharp smell of the morning street, the oily hint of asphalt, the prairie-husk of dried grass. Breathe deep and the faint dampness, tiniest hint of warm humidity, fills my lungs with the promise of a hot day.
I love the steam rising from a new cup of hot coffee, dark richness of grounds and frothy sweetness of cream warming my hands.
I love watching the gray haziness of the pre-dawn sharpen, shadows forming like bad habits under limbs and behind porches as the light deepens so that in the old way of defining day from night you can tell a white thread from a black.
I love to just sit quietly under the vault of the Heavens and watch the next day begin.
Where the Telemetries End
Such is life:
We make love and the dry sheets
crackle in blue sparks. Water
slides vein by vein
over the face of stone.
We share a long night
of breathing. And when the dead
speak to us, we must ask them
to wait, to be patient,
for the night is still ours
on the rooftops of the Al Ma'badi,
with a tracery of lights
falling all around us.