Sunlight On Sage Poem by Michael Cayley

Sunlight on sage.
When her eyes glow
what gold does she glimpse?
Or is time just foreshortened,
the past dancing?

Cars lie doggo
in the weekend heatwave.
Her parched mouth
vibrates for words
she cannot reach.

Empty limbs, chopped
into bras and jeans,
dry on the line.
Indoors we shift
patterns for comfort,
slap the shape
of her head from the pillows.

Apple blossom
drifts to baked clay.
This hurts most,
that words can finally
defect. Urgent
touch proves her human.
Her fingers catch
at my ticking wrist.