Sunday Afternoon by Gregory Altreuter

Heat steams across the coil of the radiator
Still sighing in early April,
An exhalation like daffodils,
If they could speak.

Grey luminance like smoke
Fills the room, drawing down
The curtains of breath in rhythm:
The rise and fall of sleep.

When we wake there is an icon
Of the afternoon
Pressed into your face,
Where my hand lay;

The curve of your back
Has left an imprint, too,
Your warmth on my skin,
A freshly sprung bloom.