Dawn
In the monastery of night furled into a seed shorn of everything but an open eye,
in the necessary pelt learning how to skim like that breeze and a curtain,
a growing shawl of light. Where are you hungry like a horse? Where are you
hungry like a bear? Eagles aren’t dead anymore. The yellow-cupped cowslip
nods. A spring-born smell. Now it’s your turn to sing. Like the tongue. In a bell.