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Does God play a part
in this?
splayed out
on the bed
slanted morning sun
coming through
curtained windows
into our
slitted eyes.

I, half asleep
you at my side
the warmth of your skin -
I can feel
the drafty cold
through the glass
wind shaking window.
This is as close to-
as we'll ever get.

Minced words
sizzling in the pan
onion cut
that has always made
me cry
forgotten in this sleepy morning
with you pressed against
my side.

How many Sunday mornings
have we spent like this?
How many Sunday mornings
do we have left to go?
I count them like sheep
luring me back to sleep
we hop these dawns
like fences
rubbing sandman's dust
from our eyes.

Does God play a part
in this?
In this silence
in this whispering wind
do I find faith?
Warm quiet thoughts
your head
pressed into my shoulder
we sleep
waiting to rise, to wake.

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