When mornings
start wavering
out of existence,
not yet gone,
but long since
in going,
why do I
keep my mind fixed
on their glimmering
as a watch stopped dead
at set 6am—contemptuous
of noon?
Would I starve in the wilderness
to spare the strange, wonderful
plumage of its birds?
such a static thing as
beauty
on the aggressive-
ly protean
soul of this world?
