Sunday, January 27, 2008

In The Waiting Morning

I sat in the late day warm winter sun
Flask in hand
Back pressed against the radiant wall
of old adobe
Smoking away things never had
swallowing the truth
with rye soured by steel
and not liking it any better than the cool fresh air
Idyll, or idol, are never idle
and I’ll never be so lucky
Eyes closed and through lids overcome
with the welding-heat yellow-white of sun
making its lonely arc, ever heavenward somewhere
ahead, in the waiting morning

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