Poem 432

Rain on the roof, warm domesticity, knowing each other well enough to read minds …

Homelife

Night does its washing the old way
with plenty of wringing and rubbing
slapping down mats of rain
one after another on the ceiling
whistling a low slow note

your head is a hill I climb
never reaching the top
stopping in the curve of an eye
to eat my sandwiches
all loosened with love
like a stray eyelash I kick off
into space

I ask you what you're thinking about
you say 
                that you're about
to ask me what I'm thinking