Another Day, Another Alba
May, and four A. M. I wake,
nothing near enough to touch
in the daylight-saving dark
except the clock. Out of reach
is most wanted: cigarettes,
soft wish of words, a patch
of greener grass. Minarets
are not feeling up my sky
with your prayers. Ah, love, let's
face it: it's morning and I,
no loving-tongued romantic,
might invent a sleepless eye
wild with longing for the sight
of the world's last nightingale
drowning in his bubbling throat,
or say over Mandalay
comes up sullen, silent dawn
where no flying fishes play,
more beautifully. Senlin,
old birdsong singer, that roar
's northbound traffic coming on:
Semis and Diesels, all four
lanes ninety-nine-ing to meet
in Seattle at six, where,
under cloverleafs of slate,
they'll pair off and copulate.
Structure
26 lines · 9 stanzas