Mornings are a time of brand
recognition, are the affirmations
of our silicone dreams, are the
insipid anchor of our biological
imperative, are an invention of
themselves.
Much like the poem writes
itself, the morning spreads
as part of its self-invention,
how particles of light are selffulfilling prophecies similar
to a spontaneous stream of words
filling a vessel in no particular
order.
The morning appears flat, but
at its edges it bends seamlessly,
is a disc of unfettered
centrifugal absolutions,
posits unanswerable
equations until night
overtakes it and makes it mine
again.
We keep morning hidden
under the sink like a
disinfectant, like spools
unwound and repurposed,
faded spectrums of
observable patterns, fixed
in the sense of observation
as industrial strength glue,
inviting God to see if It can
undo what consciousness has
borne.