You brought me orange juice
in bed
as the sun began to throw its spears
into the hanging dust.

Anything you’d like to do today?
Nothing really, besides the juice.

I clicked on the tape we had
been listening to.
Graceland;
the soundtrack to those
days of delicate Do-Nothing.

You rejoin me under the comforter,
our legs finding their place
in the resumed
leg-y lattice.

We sat. We sat
and it was safe,
and Simon continued to sing.

It felt, as it often did,
that these songs
were for us.
That lyric came up,
the one you love.
About Sunlight.

Having given just
the sniffle of a laugh,
you turned your head, and
gave me this look.

Your eyes had no agenda;
your smile a gentle spontaneity.
No precalculation, just the vague awareness
that there was, indeed, something
to smile for.