Don’t take it out of the world.
Leave it in the world for me.
Leave her gentle stirring
at the window,
set going by first
light, one thumb dug
into the pillow and the motions that follow
of her arm, the palm of her hand. Leave this eyelid of hers
in the world for me. Leave it for me slightly parted
in the soft light from behind the curtain. And leave me too that middle finger
of hers, which battles with a strand of rebellious hair. And
that amazing movement that runs from her back and accompanies her to the tips
of a ring finger, and a pinky. And please leave her hair
gathered up for so many years,
to this day, with a ribbon.
And leave the gold, if possible,
leave this ray of splendor
that has been falling thousands of years in
the same one-thousandth of a second. Between the two mounds of her breasts.
Once and for all. Leave me
everything, beautiful. Fasten
everything into the light.
Like this presence of hers now.
In the pure morning.