Her flesh, her wire, her negligee
connect the room with the silence
around it. Morning is lovely
and not worth a word. The alarm
clock blinks seven, seven, seven.
Its hammer forgives the sunrise,
forgives what isnít the robin.
She slits each window in her room.
Bah! Weíre mixed up. The crossing calls
again, but no train comes. Cars pass
the tracks like mist or lost children.
I didnít know they moved like mist.
Aching and aching and aching
the morning rings for its own sake.
is entering his second year in the MFA program
at the University of Michigan. His work has appeared in the September 2006 Autumn Sky