We nap smooth as a cake
knife, slicing this week

into as many days as we please
and eating them all. Again, again,

we are knives or mouths or perfect
peaches. We sleep

like soft fruit in an upside-down cake,
wake warm and split-open,

decorating a new day. And so it is
that in this one week I wake

thirty mornings with you. Slip bare feet
into rubber boots two sizes too big,

make the sleepy walk
to the outhouse in my underwear

or tank top or the padded plaid jacket
you hang behind the door.

One morning we drive through the dark
to Pointe Saint-Pierre and wait

on blankets in wet grass. A storm
baffles the horizon and the sun rises

somewhere we can’t see.
Small servings of sky turn pink.

A seal flashes a speckled belly
and then rolls over as if falling

back to sleep. A Minke
slices the surface. All at once

this watery yellow light on your face.
What is enough? Sometimes a whole day

happens in an hour and a half. After,
we climb into the green Subaru

and lean the bucket seats back. The next
town won’t open for breakfast until eight.

You pull a sleeping bag over us.
I lift sock feet over the gear shift,

slide them under your knees. The rain
pounds out the shape of the metal car

and we curl like cats into an armpit
of ordinary happiness
 and sleep.