Morning

it's early enough that i can catch my breath
in diffuse oak winds standing over a lake
and see the obelisks rolling to class
before the sun has buggered us and bloodied our eyes
and prior to the fatal conceptions of noon shadows
which rend us asunder with rays moste fowle.

the lake is rolling tides of history
from salt flat to Salt Point and international salt company
leading the way, in glorious banality.
no cutters at dawn; but the waves knock the pilings
and flatly slap the swimming raft, dislodging algae and baring
the virginal underpinings to all eyes.

the grass is tired like men this morning
bent by alarms and false alarms and corpuscent evenings
that bend the men themselves and depress the statistics
as in, no city, but simple counting is the key to this decay.
the statisticians spend another sleepless night in the ER.
rugged forms of urban renewal are replaced with tasteless bushes.

mortar is fluid and immortal because of ivy,
without the ivy it's paraplegic and wan.
most often found sullen and moon faced in chunks on the sidewalk,
awaiting the Holy Sweeper who (it has been prophesised) will save them from themselves
and rescue them into the bosom of lime manufactories and recyclariums.
it cracks and batters those beneath it like greatness,
unrecognized and deep burning with a fire that must be cooled by air conditioning to prevent wear on the bricks.
mortar is a quiet tragedy.

the dead leaves turn livid
and radiate like plaintains and birds of paradise
before dropping to be stepped on.
they're ground into the sidewalk
standing as an eternity of seasonal suicides with their grime,
that unspoken boon to the resilient shoemakers of massachusettes.
oh baby, we've got soul. ``