Borderline

Kitchen Table At 3:14 A.M.

He is sleeping again, one of those
poems he writes pressed between
me and the stubble on his cheek.
I know the bed misses him, but
I cherish these moments:
the sweeping strokes and dips
his pen makes, and only thin
paper to separate those words
from me. Once, when the paper
hid itself from him, he wrote a
small one on my corner.
Just ten words, but my favorite:
Roots reaching down.
Leaves reaching up.
You grasp it all.