Aubade: The Morning Beast
Maybe she’s the dew-crystalled web
and the great furred spider inside it.
Maybe she’s bus exhaust and sirens.
You don’t need to know. For certain
she is not worried about haircuts or lists
or televised debates. She is not worried
about certainty. She isn’t here to smooth
anything over. She isn’t here to judge
or forgive. She has fog. She has seven deer
and a massive growling garbage truck.
She does not care about the research
you’ve done. She does not notice
your mouth. She herself doesn’t need one.
She herself doesn’t speak because
speaking goes one way only, is non-
dimensional, air-colored and leafless.
She is all leaves. She is all cisterns
of stone. She towers when she wants to.
Other times she mists-and-murmurs.
She sees you wanting her to absolve you.
She sees you making your sunrise resolutions:
good morning, restraint and improvement!
She finds you sweet, the way you might
find a vole or a small ceramic cactus sweet.
She is a non-translation, a no thank you.
She wants for nothing. She’s insatiable.
Brimless, she’s filled to the brim.
