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Morning Song ("It is simply a matter. . .")

It is simply a matter of syntax.
"I" "love" "you." It is simply a matter

of order. The simplest words work
the best for the complex emotions:

"Love." "Gone." "Loss." It is morning
and we lie here on this clean, white, pleated

double bed. We are waiting for the sunrise
to unmask us of our sleep. It is lyrical

to dream like this. We ones who climb
like primates up through sleep at night

to dream of light. I dream of you. Black suitor,
gone, like sleep. Like vapid, nothing dreams.

At night these objects take on cast of shadow,
yet we sleep. At night we feel this nothing-new,

this tongue-loll, this exigent sinew, and
I think we must deceive ourselves.

Our brains are of two warring halves,
and we as well must press ourselves

together in this hateful morning light.


[from The Boston Review]