Sunday morning and four hours of sleep and in the car watching my breath
open like a flower slowly toward the sun petal by petal, soon red. 
The radio sounds good and the radio has always sounded good
and the radio will always sound good and my lover sleeps upstairs in a bed
still impressioned by my long awkward body and she hugs the teddy
and I wear the same shirt and jeans I wore last night and the clouds are low
and sweet sweet gray and snow white but the weather’s not cold.  It’s early summer gold and all the pirate children are leaving the coast like they do every summer
and later the coast will be farther not visible and the imagination the booty
that much closer and these mornings forever.  And now Danya Kurtz is singing
a Johnny Cash song and I’m on the radio and if I’m not now I will be soon
and you should be too because we all love the radio, all of us, early and late,
asleep and awake, we all love the radio, and we take that love and we make it
something big and something lasting, and we wear its ring, its bright, delicious ring
made from the dust of morning so every time it leaves us the way it does
we won’t forget what once was, what still is, underneath the hum, and in it too.