Your room, then.
A swan`s bone of sunlight
cuts through 6am,
a furtive oak grasps at
the window`s neutrality
and a crow croaks curses
as the night gathers her dead.
A mile away, the fierce
glass city prepares new thunder
and when you emerge in
the room`s bewilderment of shadows,
you scent stalks me.
And light as drizzle,
the syllables of your name
catch the growing dawn.
There is nothing I can say
that is not cliché,
that will not achieve
the burn of your indifference,
but as I watch
in the new day`s half light,
the mirror is so dim
nothing is reflected
but the stranger
that is you.
