Some Agitated Dawn

is where she waits for me, beaming
on the shelf of early dreams—
white legs crossed demurely

covering herself. They're nice legs,
though, pale and fine,
topped by those enigmatic breasts

I just dreamt about,
each long nipple sucked into a mouth
whose lips kiss sleep.

How can anyone rest
in such bright and angled light, when bathed
in his own, insistent, want?