When Done
Take the morning and wring it
with calloused hands
to see what drips
from the bloat of its beginnings,
a splash of light to give
gleam to a memory or mix
disparate things in metaphor
for the ordinary to flash fresh
and be seen anew.
Or perform the rites
of distillation, the craft of making
what something in us craves
yet gives such meagre portion
just to dampen lips and no more,
whilst elsewhere in the shadows,
or loitering in between,
is the glint of promises
our monuments can never keep.
Blunted tools butcher out
gross effigies of our gods
or fit stone hands to feel
the touch of flesh. The morning
yields its bounty to give comfort
and set something gentle
within us free,
leaving mere phantoms
to inhabit the places
where we want to be.
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