The morning has a hole in its side,
It rolls through the grass like a wounded bear.
Over and over it goes, clutching its wound,
Its wound fat with sorrow.
I feel nothing for the morning.
I kneel in the early grass and stare out blankly;
I stare at the blank leaves,
The leaves fat with sorrow.
Morning, the birds have come to patch you up.
They will bandage you with grass.
Morning, you are so tired.
Your eyes look terrible.
I remember how once
You were so eager to begin life,
Dressed in glittering frost you strolled
Nonchalantly down the avenues.
O Morning, it was bound to happen!
You grasp at the wet branches, the spiky thickets.
Over and over you roll, the years pouring out of you.
I wipe a razor clean of flowers, ignore the birds,
And their insistent shouting of ‘Assassin’.