Something Akin To Morning

What do you call it, whatever we’re doing
when the sun rises—something loam and unearthed—
tell me, where in your chest does it feel
like forever? The bathroom sun on tile floor,

wet stuttering against the altar on my shower wall
watering plants that wilted also into the breathless
sigh of winter, the sun distortion through glass box windows.

We laid sun soaked together against rocks
that bloomed from busy waters. And again
under this roof and others: blanketed
in stripes, shadows, morning sun, wet breath.

Clumsily I want to know if the rattling bones
behind our sternum speak the same, or if it is all
molten uncertainty, or the sun. I am lucky either way
to be here with you beside the grave of our findings
when the sun comes up.