Predawn, Without

The wind, a poetry brushing my skin. Ferns painting ankles in cool dew on a hiker’s trek. The stars, arranged or understood as arranged... a song not yet forgot. An arrangement of notes, of diacriticals, of arpeggios, awaiting the blushing washout. My arms, open to the lovely dark, the smokily smudged pre-dawn... Tea vapours’ tendrily hand caresses tenderly my nostril, my hungry Palace of Intent. She sleeps, Somewhere. Or rises. Somewhere, that accursèd ‘not here.’ She starts a shower, she starts her coffee, she starts her car. She starts her day. These arms are never so Empty, so Open as in these epoch hours before the Light.