Let me give you my dawn, whether you want it or not,
like my new self, alike a kite in a vacant, hollow sky.
It came lard-like between the
sprick and trundle of the trees on the line, the complex intersection between shade and light. I gazed at them in awe, and
at the salmon silver and at the
slush of unresolved sight.
Let me give you my dawn,
as I passed the Queen Anne house,
modest in its excellence, its transience,
its stay, and looked at my right,
a chance glance into the field, the mossy glup
of new day, and the chicken run, all bright timber and netting barely settling into gravity and marriage,
and the evidence of fox gone, the goreless, the feathered - supine, prostrate, half-alive,
I thought to tell and thought not
as I walked to the village shop.
I told Shirley, sage queen of the post office, that it was Nobby that caused me this early access into her domain. Yes, weak being, I blamed Nobby
and she said 'He won't mind'.
I told Nobby as I left, disengaging from my mask,
releasing my persona from the close, stark breath of self.
'I always get the blame', he said, proud, respectful, resigned,
proud still. Let me tell you my dawn,
and yet not. Why reveal the
secrets of leverage? Why?
I don't wish to say what the gods
don't allow to reveal. I just wish to say
I was there, I am here ... still.