as
the page you’re reading
the
reconstructive business of the morning
strikes
me with no harmony
as
the hammers drill and discord shrill
as
the wounds of gulls
slips
into my consciousness and winds
everything
in me to a steady standstill
the
taste of nightshade lingers
in
my brain
and
on my tongue the brine of ocean green
the
imagination keeps me yawning
the
night is not done yet
despite
the trials of morning
there
are thoughts on which I have to sit
I
have ideas still to upset
and
while the dawn slips by unnoticed
as
a cat on a council house porch
the
planets still revolving
and
stay in orbit
outside
the realm of morning song and outside
the
reach of the sun’s unrelenting
pain,
and revealing touch.
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