I Like How You Spend Your Time

I like how you spend your time
breathing—
into your pelvic fire,
to help signal a feeling of release,
balancing contentment with desire,
because it is necessary for holiness.

I like how you spend your time
eating—
what makes you pucker:
green tea, Montmorency cherries;
steeling yourself for loose hunger,
and for whomever says: Yes, please.

I like how you spend your time
drinking—
from an outdoor tap,
in the lawn that your father seeded,
at bird’s eye view of the map,
overwhelmed by his honor conceded.

I like how you spend your time
sleeping—
through the climax,
because it intensifies the afterglow,
that spiritual state after sex,
for cultivation of love and know-how.

I like how you spend your time
playing—
with the scrub daisies
braiding tails, floating heads,
in puddles of yesterday’s
rain, until “He Loves Me” is dead.

I like how you spend your time
working—
soft and comfortable,
unhardened by years of resistance
to setting places at the table;
for unlaid plans, and boxed plants.

I like how you spend your time
being.

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