I was in the morning.

.

I was in the morning

And I think that parts of you were there, too,

Sometimes I could feel you.

And we touched

Some times.

I was in the morning and I was,

Like almost always,

Strewn about, my eyes

Too big for my stomach.

In the morning

Before the light of day

Before the dawn.

Some of us,

From our dreams,

We ask ourselves.

We have to put a limit

On attachment

And dress our selves

In the suits

Of the day.

And others will tell us

What is up

sometimes

And we will have to bow our heads

And get it

And grow.

Some of us are full of potential

But we leak

Like water

From cupped

Hands.

Think of the shimmering

Flash of light

Shining out from behind the filigree,

From the watermarks,

From our birthmarks,

From underneath our skin,

And you can deal

In an honest way

Sometimes

With other people in the morning,

Sometimes

With your self,

And sometimes even

With the combination of the two,

overlapping in each other.

In the slaughterhouse

They will wake you

And juxtapose an image

On your face

And you will be read

And you will say something

And what you meant to say

Will be like the little white bird,

You filled her with water

And that holy water

poured from her breast,

From the ruptures in her wings,

spilling meaning

like watermelon seeds and stickiness and

pink juice

and in the morning it flew

and you could see it,

like a golden bird,

going.

.