Two down, 29 to go. I picked a hell of a month to Grind, but I'm sticking to it.
The sun climbs the morning and has no say,
so white and perfect and on which no life
can be rebuilt. In this part of the midwest, the land
is flat and monotonous, guiding the choices we make
with each heartbeat. We try not to cough or sway
the ancient mattress. The night has always been the time
we loved each other best. Poetry like love is made
in a bed. I marvel at the color of your body,
at our endurance, at the hills ahead.