Mourning

That splashing orange roar,

that which came before.

The sun slips through slits

in coffee filter curtains to

slosh through sheets of

still-life shade, that

navy sno-cone din that

eeks from corner to creak

and sinks itself to static chills

from frosted sills.

Light descends through

iced din as honey; it

pools itself in creviced

firmamental folds. The sun

scoops white-hot

ice cream novas from the

thick wine dark blankets.

She bids my lashes to shirk

sleep’s shroud and bade

my mind to draw itself up

by the roots, from

cool dirt loose dreams and

unfurl itself upon

the tightening seams, that

warm pulp of morning’s first gaze.

The room revives itself in dawn’s

scrutiny, cast in pastel light.

Impressions are seduced from

skewed-coherence

and swayed to wrench and twist

themselves into

patterned floral paintings, into stiff

double-bed skirts, and into smolder

laced logs.

That splashing orange roar,

that which came before.

Before things were cast in what they are instead of what they are not.

Before worlds enjambed borders by bedpost, right justified to the rising sun.

I sink with sighs and compel these thick dark folds. That they might reclaim me from sunburst tarnish.