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