There is nothing poetic
about the way the sunlight
creeps underneath the window blinds
and paints itself across my bedroom walls.
There is nothing beautiful
about a morning in October
when the sky is speechless and still
and a lone airplane climbs across its shoulders.
There is nothing sacred
about a naked body in a naked bed
left on its side staring at the blue
walls of forgotten promises.
There is only a woman,
a day, a calendar, a silence,
and somewhere above it all
a window seat.