Sing to the body mouth-breathing beside you,
a body so obvious that you are the last person to notice
the thinning hair, the weary lines, the pale marked flesh.
Sing to the sleeping hand that reaches out,
in autonomic comfort, to knead your sagging breasts.
Sing to the sharp hipbones that wedge against your backside.
Sing to the penis that cannot decide whether to rise or to nestle,
and sing to your dry vagina that doesn’t care one way or the other.
Sing to the four legs, entangled,
and to the white comforter that cocoons them.
Sing to the cat draped over two pairs of knees,
and to the vague dream of kicking him off.
Sing to the past and future of sweat and crumpled sheets.
Sing to the streetlights and the falling snow.