Good Night, Morning


    A seamless cover trembles in the wind above.
    We call it air or space or
    Something in between
    Most often known as night.
    An end to this expanse is not perceived,
    And thus not seen.
    Nor is whoever sewed it up so masterfully.


    There were pieces of dawn
    Stuck to my hair. My
    Morning hair, morning clothes,
    Dotted with holes, worn
    In mourning of the
    Night sky opening with
    Fresh abandon,
    Starting it all again.

    I waited, luminous as Tess,
    Hoping my Angel would
    Come down the Attic
    Stairs to see me like a long
    Lost bride, swathed in
    White, glowing with virginity.
    I watched the clock’s
    Needles, running laps,
    Slow and mournful laps
    Around themselves, wishing
    The creak of my
    Chair was the creak of
    Floor boards under your
    Moving feet.

    Look me in the eyes. How else
    Can I stay, forever in your
    Memory: the morning girl,
    Womanly in beauty, childish
    In smiles, mourning
    What never occurred, what
    Rested on tongues, yet
    Was never said, once
    The door opened and
    Steps were real.


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