First Words of Day, in the Morning Dew

Poets.

Where others are tortured

by sleeplessness

We turn torment into art form

And lay into it tooth and nail

With all the entrails

Hanging loose

So juices spill, rolling down

The crevasse...

Blotted up from the chin

onto a diner serviette and

repressed in print...

The pain still fresh expressed

like from a grinding mill

where sand is powdered

into dream...

Sweet is our profession

With the only hand on the call

Box being as transparent as a

Vesper

As it hovers over a heart

In the breaking darkness of dawn

When it has just freshly been Forgiven...

Languid in our vision, as cool

And calm as palm fronds

Swaying as the

Breeze exudes

The breath,

The word becoming new life

As dead sheets are turned...

And the corners are tucked

5/4/24

Bunny Villaire

& Mavia Villaire