Isn't it something that we are most beautiful when everything is okay,
like the apple cheeks of a wind kissed autumn pinching us into September,
or the two of us on a Saturday night surrounded by lists of things
(to do), and nothing but our flushed secret tellings and hands that know exactly when to hold each other on a mattress built for this kind of living, and mornings straight out of the shower with a yellow towel keeping me from the possibilities waiting beyond the front porch. Isn't it something that all of the makeup in the world can't fix
the absence of beauty, like mornings when the porch seems like a prison settle
in its place, whispering about going back to bed?