Wednesday, May 8, 2019

MORNING ROUTINE

Before dawn each day—
impossibly high
impossibly far away

uncountable
savage blast furnaces
are firing

just to power
the weak light
that yawns through

the kitchen window
by which you like
to sit and sip tea

and thumb through a few
pages of Marlowe
or maybe

sketch a fragment
of your own about
corn flowers—

before the slightest flutter
of one lid
of one eye

pitiless factories
galactic in size: all working
triple-overtime

toward an infinite quota
completely for free—
just to manufacture

those sanitized
unbreakable
I-beams of time

which later you
blithely call the
small hours.

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