Artwork: Italian Midday (1827)
Artist: Karl Bryullov
The cushion has me in splits —
and I see a part of me under the wooly blankets of fern —
living a sleep rather than dreaming it.
The head remains neglected
as it foresees the day —
It has chosen a deliberate trouble.
If the very dawn was the precipitated noon
and in turn, the sour orange
and the wooded moon —
The existence would have been ‘you’.
I look at the tea pot served —
if it’s ‘us’ pouring in a combination,
If that’s so —
the present isn’t any different.
It’s upon us how we form poems
The dawn is just the plot.
I should wake and leap forward —
entering other prohibited phases
I would love —
to be boycotted by dawn
and live your day.
It’s only then —
You vibrate me up with a push
uniting my pillow and porch as one
and directing for a pre-office bath.
The first drop —
from the shower nozzle on my lip
The first dew of your dawn.