The morning splits grey hair. It is not fooling anyone. Not the early spiders
collecting daily clues.
Not even the figs
despite their awkward name in which they feel no glory.
We awake, muzzy-minded to find who we are.
Crude down eyes see each other.
We must again fall in love with the footsteps
of stampeding challenge.
Birch makes no mirror — just an outline
as the sky makes a chalet of escape
as you make me, me.
If it takes another century to learn who you are again
I will stay half-melted like a tuscan grape
waiting to be turned beautiful to meet your mouth,
your town, your memory.
It will cause the first thought
undoubtedly causing bloom.
We are after something
not like the night which hides.
No we cannot do that
nor fade, nor turn in