Morning’s sheer margin,
feathery protuberance that brushes
against my face until I stir.
Limpid milk, topiary of frozen liquids.
In every language I know,
I practice saying Do you love me?
I unpeel layer after layer:
down to the water table,
down to the quiet mud.
In another hundred years,
our fingers might trace
the beveled surface of the same bud.