Every day
breaks in my palms
like raw clay.
The morning

Trickles down my spine,
My escort out
From the devine.
Into another war

I run out to the morning
So it dosent leave
Without me.

It is so much harder
To fall in love
With the world again
After the sun

Reaches its pith
And goes on to
Complete the
After Noon.


October 30, 2004

Berkeley