Of Morning

Darkness
is the gallop
of wounded—

bones

clanking
in the shadow-hall.

Light
is a frantic
corridor of

organs,

the end
comes
in dead—

hands and daggers.

Silence approaches
motionless
like the growth

of a sycamore,

ghostly
white mourning
behind the teeth

of a churchyard.

The twist
of cobble stone
mimics the creek

bed in its winding
to the foramen
corpus

like the formation
of snake-line
fractures

in the ceiling-texture,

animals:
hyenas,
the condor,

the weight—

of a coffin
lid pressing
on the bedside

of morning.