Making love in the afternoon
stops the world. The clock
beside the bed reads a dazzle
of broken red lines, vying
for completion. The pillows
on the floor dare not settle,
their feathers suspend inside,
a bloat of anticipation. The phone
clenches the cradle, willing
itself not to ring, and the faucet
holds its single tear. Outside,
if a dog barks, the wind simply
swallows it until our bodies stop
and slide back to single selves.
Then, around us, the spinning
starts anew, as if the electricity,
suddenly restored, starts a record again,
the slurred sound of the world
gaining momentum until it sings and sings.