The Morning, If It Must
the morning groans as she untangles from the covers
worn and blunt
from the night before
her eyes puffed and wrinkled, wrinkled and blink
winking with bleary sting. mustard gas
sinking
swallowing in the hollows
choking the cities yellow
choking the grass grown over
grave row
choking the green grass
brown
burying the noble and their children
who only wanted revenge on
each other
say, the ghost shirt. say, for the
virgin
no more wire, no more line
it all gets sent through collapsing
time
between
towers
of
aluminum
drowning man, drowning with the fear of
that fire
that he has forgotten, or
the fire that has forgotten
him
fingering dull charms
that he has wrapped round
the neck. to study on
to construct
worry on
like a rosary. a rosary of
dull, clanking, cold
charms
to keep him occupied
to keep the morning
meaning
full
material, predictable
to keep an attempted faith
still
able
Copyright © Michael Miers | Year Posted 2014
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