Another joy found via Fourteen Poems, from this collection one of the poems I liked the most was:
Monday
Sun first
then white sheets
our bodies dropped from our minds
into a bed so warm it breathes,
the weekend’s jeans a moult
a denim waterfall crumpled in the floor,
coffee as strong as a ring,
steam as hot as the iron I use
to press my shirt for today’s work.
Maybe loving is like ironing a shirt.
Only through heat and pressure does it yield
its shape,
take the form which best fits.
Over time, the cloth’s
colours might hold;
or the fabric fade and fray,
the shirt still kept, still worn
but while scrubbing floors, changing
curtains, cutting weeds
slowly grown among
our chive and mint;
or perhaps the shirt is slit for a quilt,
made into a rag,
or given to someone else
who would otherwise be naked.
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