Despite yourself, you kiss the body of the day.
Idling over its ravaged fingers, lifting its aged palm
to the still-dreaming purse of your lips.
The body of the day shifts annoyed in its nightshirt,
drily surprised at your nuzzling its creepy, corded neck.
Then sighs as you blow gently on its cornea, glazed
in the cataract of your wakeful watch over a terminus
that leads only to the next aching moonrise.
The day abides you licking away the raw placenta
curdling over an inchoate notion of what it will yet become.
More often than not, the day responds slowly
to your familiar ministrations. Tired as is the day
from its tenuous re-arousals into being,
it eventually, invariably kisses you back.
But not till your surrender to the inevitable
ticking thrust of every harsher moment
that erodes your insistent romance with time.
The body of the day lies long and near your own,
easing from your chest a rippling sigh of thirst
for the strangers flooding past like toiling rivers
crossed only in death and birth by weary, resolute kin
bearing in the twilit end of day.