It's almost sweet
the way your light heart first starts
to feel slight pressure
as
redgold smithereens
of another early-
dawning winter
morning—gradually get drawn together;
as those
smoldering shards
of last night's quaking silver
dreamstuff then start
swiftly cooling
into another
battalion of
such hard—and brutal ought-tos
quickening
fast to war now and already
marching onward—forward with fresh arrows for
the onslaughts—and quivers-
full
of bloody ardor for yet another
one
of yesterday's goddamn-doomed tomorrows.
