One time,
when it looked like winter,
it was harder in the morning.
Ducking out when the lights came on,
like some dust-mouse in a drafty doorway,
I cursed under my breath
and picked my feet up,
hitched my steed up,
turned the heat up,
and watched the icy sun scale the icy sky.

In the meantime,
I'd lick leaves in my pine box.
It got harder every morning
not to wet my neck
when young men sang
out of my mouth for me.

Until a time,
when antichrists and I alike
in celebrating wasted life
could not anticipate the coming
from an open sky
of one so unassuming
flicker in the dusk.
She sidled up
and sat as long as she liked.

And weeks
and months
and years
it's been since I
had a morning that did nothing
but interrupt the dreadful shades of night.

11/18/2008

Posted on 11/18/2008
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