Sunday Morning

You make a
comma with your body
and I am happy to play
predicate to your subject,
adhere to that curve,
punctuate
another hour of sleep.

The dogs diagram it out,
tack on their phrases,
use small words.

We four clump
like platelets in the
vessel of our bed,
a warm clot of
soft breathing stupor and delay,
languishing
and lavishing
a day without schedules.

Sleep, capital S,
begins another paragraph,
the thesis the same.
You roll in a semicolon,
sigh an em dash.

The pace quickens
and eight eyes open.

Smell of coffee,
exclamation point.