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“Ode, Aubade"
And the morning, too,
falters,
struggles to
assert itself,
burn through
the errant
fog, the pines,
scorch the
whole grove
of trees
and crooked
streetlamps. Your
body’s turning,
turning
beside me
in my bed’s—
sprawl?
Badlands?
You sigh
on my neck.
Startled,
the crick
and sob buried inside it
like a pulsar
behind dust,
like a larva
in a bean,
want out.
Greg Wrenn, Poem-A-Day, March 25, 2013”
―
And the morning, too,
falters,
struggles to
assert itself,
burn through
the errant
fog, the pines,
scorch the
whole grove
of trees
and crooked
streetlamps. Your
body’s turning,
turning
beside me
in my bed’s—
sprawl?
Badlands?
You sigh
on my neck.
Startled,
the crick
and sob buried inside it
like a pulsar
behind dust,
like a larva
in a bean,
want out.
Greg Wrenn, Poem-A-Day, March 25, 2013”
―
