1
What do mornings regard but
  the night refusing to budge?

The Sun a progeny
there must be room for days in
   this revenge

2
I   fold   I
in this exquisite manner

I  dream of  my  fortune
    as  rash   before  this I  slid

underneath the cleft
like  an  epistle

   unopened,  stamped  by the dearth
of another

secured   in this  absence
  black like a cummerbund

3
The   bed shook.
     enough  to  toss me out of

but not  inherit me  into  a dull succession.

our  places  nominal.
we have   a sum  if  syndicate
  but  still  impotent

they   have  made  this a reportage
of  a miracle  read  from a  gauche script:

This is
the morning that
was becoming no
less than a champion
over you |  vacate your  body
      while you  are still  able  |

the body confesses
I am constantly awakened
  by  this  futility.