In The Morning


A timid beam caresses past a curtain’s stirring,

or perhaps a sound or scent invades,

suspending me in serenity

between the alpha plane and here.


Strands of dreams like floaters

in a mirror faintly trace resolution,

the ends of time and tense drift nearer,

and then the world comes crashing in.


True love routinely razed each morning

is a piteous recurrence,

as each day duty drags me rudely

from this cradle of downy arms.


Conceived and born in my love,

it is there I aspire to die some morning

when my bed at home will free me,

like my pencil freed this poem.



- Joe MacLean