In Praise of Knuckle Dimples

I could spend a lifetime
arm trapped beneath the furnace
of your downy head
sweat pooling in the bend of my elbow
nothing to do
but study the divots at the end
of each tiny digit
those perfect replicas of my Papa's
fingernails sized to scale
the smell of stale coffee
(your father's, not mine)
threatens to nauseate me
but I am willing to endure
the olfactory discomfort
to marvel at how even in your sleep
you tap out unheard melodies
on the keyboard of my skin
then reach out to explore the world
as a wave searches the sand
how graceful your fingers are
not the bumbling cub paws
I imagined they'd be
in the months before
the dawning of your face
rising above that blue curtain
the dividing line behind which
our bodies were unentwined
(is there a word for a simultaneous
beginning and end?)
I should answer emails
I should wash out that mug
I should get on with my day
And I could easily wake you
light sleeper that you are
(my genes, not your father's)
instead I must memorize
your purple petal eyelids
fringed in fine feathers
don't even get me started
on those wrist creases