morning 

morning

morning breaks like
a plate of eggs
at last year's diner,
like a plaster mask tossed into the
garden, two rainy seasons later.

this sun sighs, folds itself into
a fog-scarf, says
i've seen it all before,
this tuesday thing. why
bother dressing up?

the clouds shift and roll
in their sky-bed, trying
to get comfortable amidst
the high-pressure system,
edging toward the ground.

i used to know a thing
or two about morning, how
it could start everything
up again, strech and yawn
into the beginning of
what's left.

a contrail makes a question
mark outside my window,
and the question hangs in
the air, hangs there
until the questions fall apart.