CATHERINE CHAMPION

Aubade

There is nothing but a dawn to wait for
and we couldn’t be lighter—the smoke
sifting through the screen window,
thin as your illusion, your tired gaze.

And morning opens like a slow door,
lifts every sensitive hair. The sun
draws time across the ceiling,
shadow after shadow—and if we stay

still, we will become everything.
Quiet, the blushing day,
a sight into your shutting eyes
—the presence of air.