Morning has come
To wake the weak
In me. O they play,
In stomach lining,
Those deep and lonely cuts,
Braced for acid burn.
Morning is bright with
Hours just as frail—
To worry such lines as
We do—and She does—;
The hours run themselves ragged,
Striking bedframe before us.
Morning brings hairline fractures
And mortars to our shared air;
In the dirty, cracked linoleum
That is her brow, it’ll sleep,
For now, as She does, for many hours—
Many too deep.
Morning is lattice-work—a lattice of hours,
Gripped to floors, as below, enthralled of her.
She screams; I listen—but scarcely hear—
Tortured are those hours—as I remember them.
Morning is dark, and dark is fire;
Dismissed, I am, from gun; her skin tired:
The carnal places, pockets of need—we gave
The lattice-work of lovers to desired space, we
Made room for each other’s parts.
The tragedy of a bed is that it still greets the morning—
But keeps nothing of our hours, not as She—not as I—
Not as we—remember them being kept.