Michael Harty

Always I have surveyed the warm landscape
of your face while you sleep. I scale the slope

of your cheek, the long rise of your brow. I climb
the ladder of eyelashes, rest in the calm of your breath.

There are discoveries: a scatter of freckles
left over from days at the lake, a tiny forgotten

scar under your chin. I can never know
this terrain well enough, yet morning will come.

I must rappel down a lock of hair to reach
my pillow; but I am less agile now.

You complain of your wrinkles, but to me
they are welcome reassurance, a safer foothold.