Waking Up

Sunslippered musics name our afternoon
at morning too often for me nowadays.
When simple magic spoke, your silent tune

shaped quiet pleasure in a sleepy June;
honeyed, dew-hearted, you in a thousand ways
sunslippered music’s name. Our afternoon

blessed us in a drowsily amorous swoon,
as craftily I plotted two-edged to praise
when simple magic spoke your silent tune,

and invented night—and none too soon—
icesharp (because starlit nothing stays
sunslippered). Musics name our afternoon,

though memory states cruel darkness’ rune,
and between, pointless existence strays
when simple magic spoke your silent tune.

Morninglight smears yellowed coffeespoon
todays, and no perky-pot rhythm awakes
sunslippered musics:  Name our afternoon
when simple. Magic spoke your silent tune.

(C)1978, John Burrow