When the morning comes,
it comes,

scraping along
like chalk or dread

and with it dust
and with it doubt

that settles down on
the most obvious

of things.  Of course
there was nothing

else to say.
It looks like rain

but it won’t rain,
some bird repeats

the same short call
oblivious of the

state of things,
that this morning

of all mornings
has come so early

and I can hardly
breathe for it,

let alone sing
the jaunty songs

the day requires,
or lend color

to the trees.
It isn’t envy

as Keats said
but more the desire

to fade away.
I will leave in days

for a starker place
where the sun starts

fires and it floods
from all the rain.

There was nothing
else I could have said.