morning poem in indigo

Sep 7

plum champlin

the wave of feeling that arcs between me and monday is named

anxious. about the birds in the early morning when i have not slept,

it is difficult to feel any other way.

their songs come in blips, in spots of broken code — dots of blood

falling on your handkerchief. the pitter-patter they make, the falling, their color.

the one-by-one; the trickle-in.

my dear, good morning. come: i shall kiss thee,

and bite thine unblemished sky. with cloud, with angels, with clear rain;

with each hour the watery stain seeps in.

and it grows.