Morning Rationalization
by Jim Davis


A fat, orange morning, punctured
by cloves pressed into skin.

A morning frost, blue
in the waking daylight.

Whiskers fall to a tepid pool and are rinsed,
circle the drain, disappear.

The brass hook hangs loose, one screw
spinning in its hole, my heavy coat droops.

There is nothing in Prague, I decide,
nor hidden in Treviso’s ancient canals,

that cannot be read in the blanket of crystal moss
covering the stone effigy, inscribed below angel wings.






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