Like morning's light,
the singing of the muses
is surprisingly astute
and unromantic—ranging
from the thin swivel
of coffee steam
and unshorn texture
of good book paper
to the mangy treetops and pink
shingles and ivy-
laden brick edifices
just outside the window—
then, like the translucent
morning glory folding, all
receding through interior
hallways of the mind—
doors behind doors
behind doors behind
doors—until deep
in the dark operating theater
and undivided by shadow
from what they once were
and whatever else they could,
with the dawn of a new sun, become
my eye pierces nothing
but—nets of things, tangled in
undogmatic rays—or is it
the other way around?
