7 a.m.

At 7 a.m.
Winters creep languorously into blankets
who embrace half-naked bodies
in assertive response. 


A few brave men greet the sun.
Weaker men go back to sleep.
At 7 a.m. thus, 
destinies are written. 

Cold floors greet nervous feet. 
Sinuses complain. 
Some even weep.
But the nip in the air seduces all. 

7 a.m. when I open my eyes
with your thought.
And close them until,
a later hour.

7 a.m. to until a later hour.
For I close my eyes
with your thought.

To until a later hour.
For I have closed my eyes.
With your thought.