I left ceramic dreams unglazed
as I lay in bed with morning’s grey
teasing the still-wide blacks of my eye.
It was difficult to see, much less discern,
the predawn ash landscape spotted
with new tumbleweeds…
or was that dusty flecks on my window?
My alarm clock, that composite
hunchbacked vulture, still had not seen
his morning prey lay more awake than he.
I believe I’ll let him think I’m still dead,
because until the sun measures up thin, cirrus sheets,
I’ll lie here quiet, still, and waiting for the mourning dove to trill.