Weekend

Good morning. Coffee – not
too much sugar, and brown –
or tea. Stir.
There is a church in this cup sounding bells.
Some days are prayers
though we cannot pray.

How did you sleep?
I dreamt, but it leaves you.
Well.

Who counts our loss?
Some sadness is unspeakable,
cannot be given form,
as though something nameless died in the night
and was buried inside you in secret.
The Earth itself knowing nothing of graves.

Turn away.
Eyes closed. Water-giving life.
Steam rises slowly,
offering itself to no one.
I watch and count to any number,

come up behind you, cup my hands
over your small blue planets.
They revolve in the darkness
of your head, seeking a star.

You guess my name.