I spy on the building 
closest to hand 
a movement that begins 
out on its balconies 
as the day's routine, 
the early tasks of morning
with their stock and styleless gestures, 
flowers again.
I fall in love at this one hour 
when people most repeat themselves, 
least connected to their inner lives 
and packed with habits laid down long ago. 
There's a woman I observe who 
constantly appears in bathrobe, 
on floor eight, with coffee cup, 
matronly blonde, in love with life 
casting glances at her wider world while taking 
two quick sips or three, 
and then with an erotic shake 
loosens up the sugared lees, to reach
the best of sips, the last, the sweetest. . .
all before quite waking up. 
Before you quite wake up, 
blonde of the morning, hold fast 
to ritual tasting, self-communion. 
Off from your balcony, 
at last emerged from sleep, 
slip inside your home, by now yourself, 
make gestures of your own, 
not those somebody has bequeathed to you.