I love to see the word of last night’s sleep
spelt out in the wrinkles of our bed.
We shape a sound by lying back to back
and curling round our spines until they meet.
A sound like shingle, shushed by drowsy waves
or the graft of A with E in Curriculum Vitæ.
As if we wrote the grapheme known as Ash
and spoke a tree awake by saying our breath.
The word we make is warm in the soft dark,
smooth as hands that wander along a spine,
and snug as upturned boats drawn up the beach
above the reach of spring tides overnight.