in the way that touch 
brings us into 
the shared room 
of our bodies     in the way that sight
like a spider woven to its own center alone 
at wait for what will feed it 
feels 
its winnowing skein
is the whole perceptible universe—
here, on the spinning
edge of time 
being born, dew on the window so light
in the last thoughts of night
it hasn’t under its own weight begun to streak—
remains balanced, trembling 
like I am, fearful at its core, not knowing of what—
until
at the first touch of sun over the horizon’s proscenium 
like a violin’s lone tuning “A”
crowning out the silence before the concert begins
your voice calls me back 
to bed, the air
between our eyes still dark as the night sky was, 
what we see through it, awake or asleep,
close to the same—then, closer.