mornings, diaphanous

Wrote this an hour ago at 6am, having not slept yet. Kind of shows, I think. Terribly unsure about it, yet secretly relieved I managed to bash something out for once.

the living grieve over simple accusations 
of flesh and mood contained upon one's palm 

open to the sunlight: momentary forgiveness, 
haphazard, cold and kind. 

*

placental, this is movement and life, 
confusion and soft desire 

for everything to be:
perfection 

in as many incarnations

from a thousand novels read by lamplight, 

meandering hope erased by spine and page 

turning to shadowed flight. 

*

this is that moment 
when joy and hollowness exist. 
this is the silence of an early morning 

wrapped in blankets, words, tepid coffee, 
cool air, and the muted whistling 
of birds. 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i like how you write of interludes, desire and then the desolate feeling of being left alone in the night to wake up in the morning with just the sounds of the birds outside--the tepid coffee...the words?

perhaps the other is still there...but only the bodies talk...when the daylight hits...there is nothing to say...

nothing in common but the lust of last night.

jacob

[Todd DeGroot]

I have often felt that early morning is when Death lurks around ones windows and behind the curtains, almost as if it unsure to flee as dawn approaches or stay and claim just one more.
Nicely done.

[W.k.kortas]

I'm fond of the references to creation (on many levels), of "incarnation" and "placental" dropped and placed perfectly, all the while wound into this quiet, subdued morning scene with care and skill. You can't do that by accident.

[Emily B]

it's just my humble opinion, but i think if walt whitman were still around, he'd take his hat off to words like these