sola gratia

First light is fleeting and
head-ache making.
Sweat pools in
the small of your back,
sticking like peach pits.

This morning finds
your skin three days
from ripe.

Time runs front to back
I know. Think of a
pitcher emptying; a
bed unmade; the waves
spread so thin
I am left with silence.

Every demand
is a demand
for what?

It's the last light that
traps into corners of
our room, bent slightly.
Prisms become one of
our more fluent languages.

I cannot say whether this map
is old or if it is only drawn to
appear so.