The morning has holes Like a summer leaf Withered by all those excesses The swelling lymphatic process Curtailed again, in that shirking act That ebbs in sacrifice Closes, a bent fist Inside the marble of your eye Thought you had turned the world Inside out, the moon-thin meniscus Serpentine and fluttering, in return from sleep For that, the ocean dark below All the pooling magma Defying sunrise (you said the name Of some lost shape) Between wakefulness, and The still suffused surface
