Postcard 207

Morning me, all hip

sinew and sciatic. Who pulls

these limbs over from sleep?

 

What draws me

through the narrow eye

of mind's fine dawn?

In dream's estate

the weight of limbs is ache

of rain on burdened branch.

In the cracks

distributes Father myth,

paint upon his hands

We have been every day

feathered by grief, the full embrace

of its wet wing, heavy on the joints

One foot and another

out of bed, sheer line stretch.

The children call