There are mornings when I would not open my eyes
as if the end had begun yesterday
and if it occurs to me to open them, it’ll be painful
a future’s healed traces of an ending love
by essential wonders too soon cut off
and by that kind of light-like fears distorted
to abandon only set out through besiege
the last virginal redoubts from the bones’ constellation
on which unnaturally the tomorrow’s flesh moulds
these mornings
I wish I had been blind
struck by gloomy, perception changing memories
of an immutable past
rather than a lonely clear-sighted
in the faint light of a compromised future