April Aubade
Dawn against window, rain
against window, discarded white
flowers. Shadows cannot be
held responsible for the failure
of light, though failure can
suffuse creased sheets, will be
shaped like a mouth, a hand —
failure cannot help but wait
for lacquered dusk, for days
like these that click against each other
like pearls strung from dresser
to doorknob. Your eyes close, open,
feign — the window-shaped desire
for death always a child, a child —
she remains perched against a sky
that begs, warns, closes like a throat.
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