Morning me, all hipsinew and sciatic. Who pulls
these limbs over from sleep?
What draws me
through the narrow eye
of mind's fine dawn?
In dream's estate
the weight of limbs is ache
of rain on burdened branch.
In the cracks
distributes Father myth,
paint upon his hands
We have been every day
feathered by grief, the full embrace
of its wet wing, heavy on the joints
One foot and another
out of bed, sheer line stretch.
The children call
