Morning-Three

 By Rod McKuen 

I rise up singing from your belly,          
like some glad keeper of the palace swans   
content to serve your navel                 
as an acolyte would serve his unseen god    
and take your perspiration as communion.    
                                            
Rolling now together in our bedroom world   
we'll map out elbows and each other's backs.
There are some parts of you                 
that have no highways.                      
Hairy forests cover even well worn paths    
but every forest has its own surprises      
and the hiker coming through the glade      
can only marvel as Columbus would           
at sailing past the old world's edge.       
                                            
Volcanos now erupting                       
down below your belly                       
are saying that your breakfast              
is past due.                                
Orange juice then                           
or coffee and brioche                       
or one more gentle feeding mouth to mouth.  
I'll wash the sleep from off your eyes      
and rub myself in shoulder smells           
and touch your back from top to bottom      
too happy to remember other backs.          
                                            
Back into the forest                        
to lose myself and find myself              
and fall back dying once again              
in your arms only,                          
and wound your breasts                      
with new hands one more time.               
                                            
The day gone or going                       
we'll bus from room to room                 
and I'll protest the eyes of furniture      
or flowers                                  
or anything that looks at you but me.       
                                            
I like the bed unmade.                      
It smells like each of us in turn           
and each of us together.                    
I know the telephone                        
is crying for attention.                    
A minute more.                              
It's not the telephone at all               
but celebrations of a brand-new kind        
ringing from the watching walls.            
                                            
Look at us.                                 
It doesn't matter any more.                 
You like my weight and too fast breath      
and smile in disbelief.                     
I'm smiling too.                            
I've yet to think of last week's friend     
or Julie Andrews' face.