Sundays

Running before dawn over rocky wet ruts
Led by the thin beam of your phone
To that bright mortuary of a flat:
This transience of mine and yours,
This whirring of purposes, breaths.
A soft cooked egg made in a kettle,
Crepes drizzled with ghee and berries,
Still fresh on your proffered tongue,
Shirtless embraces the trembling friction --
Flesh so taut to touch it was canvas
Then so tender to touch it was
The final brush of a guitar chord.
Grace being momentary and fury air,
When the only way was to surrender.