Almost Dawn
Almost Dawn I am the call of happy cranes the sigh of the wind around fruit-bearing trees. And, of course, Sir, I am the perforated nipples that change everything into symbols like the storm in the last stanza of a poem. I am almost dawn that wants to be broken if only to say something. And I cannot pay for a book of poetry but I am present in all of them as the dirty billow of abandonment or clear day of dreams.