Seven
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 isn’t the robin.
She slits each window in her room.
Bah! We’re mixed up. The crossing calls
again, but no train comes. Cars pass
the tracks like mist or lost children.
I didn’t know they moved like mist.
Aching and aching and aching
the morning rings for its own sake.
Jeremy Heartberg is entering his second year in the MFA program at the University of Michigan. His work has appeared in the September 2006 Autumn Sky Poetry. (jjh3984@yahoo.com).