by Jean Garrigue
At breakfast they are sober, subdued.
It is early. They have not much to say
Or with declamations fit only for whisper
Keep under pressure the steam of their joy.
She listens, usually. It is he who talks,
Surrounding her with the furious smoke
Of his looking that simply feeds,
Perhaps, her slightly traveling-away dreams
That, if you judge from her cheek,
Young and incomparably unbroken,
Are rich with the unknowing knowing
Of what he has said the time before
And with the smiles coming down the corridor
Of how it will be for year on year,
Nights as they’ll be in his rough arms.