New mornings
New mornings
These are the mornings
that are wasted on the living:
when a new moon is slowly dying,
still vaguely above ground
but sinking surly into this pale start of day.
These are the moments
that the armies of the dead
wake to the trembling stops and starts
of bird song drowning in the roar
of early, hasteful traffic.
These are the mornings
of slowly forgetting
there was life before the dawn;
before our vision turned so softly
to the art of memory and loss.