Young Mornings with Blue Accents
I require the attendance
and patience of the sun this morning and all mornings
of blustery, shameless irony
It wraps around me like an Indian blanket
in July when I rise to the white shutters of the room,
open them, see the young dead shaped
like juniper trees
in their youthful search for shadows,
understanding their beautiful series of laments. I am
handsome in my mind on a day
of tilted parasols, girls’ smiles, bronze and blue
metaphors. I understand the promise
of the river garden, the pull of Rossini’s when I’m flush,
the plush, no fuss willows along the stream.
If ever a morning was made for this, for me
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