There is a morning with an icy note
That frowns until all hands efface
Again it’s hard to stay afloat
Not sad? But still a somber place

And sun—conceived; born for us again
to dissolve the binds that hold and plague and
rip and lust away the frost of The Frustrated
Generation; too much! too much of the expectation
and shaming, unwavering against the wavelike blossom

But still a letter at the door
That knocks to bore its way inside
For what? For why a chance at more
Than ways to sit and wait and hide

For that cringing question;
melting and clawing through
a queasy stomach to the throat—
to the forefront and visions—or just the chance to ask:
the ***** and sting that steers
to and from sense.