There is something solid and safe in his frame,
And in the early morning when I wake and he does not,
The nook in his outstretched arm calls my name.
Roll, slide over into sanctum,
just some ligament and muscle he’s got.
Warm, steady heartbeat,
even his breath, a languid afterthought.
For all that I lack,
for all the want of living in pace,
for this to greet me in the morning
Is by only gift or grace.