Tuesday Morning Poem


An opening, a hole, a window
A pale stream of greenish fluid
A small boat sinking in horror
Tock-ticking doggedly, forgetting why it’s important
Stricken, awash with grief
Clear amnion and maroon clots
Is that, is that, is it not that?
There are so many starting points
The hardest thing is waking
Does facing east make it easier?
Suicide would be a heart attack in the early hours
No one need know
Still, a latte and lemon biscotti are the artery’s blueprint
The dead are not as sad as the rest of us
The 12-year-old doesn’t cry, but is pale as ice

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