Seven Hours

In the breaking dawn
songs of birds like arrows
burrow in the stunted grass.

If I loved you
I could break the mountain of sound
that separates your mouth
from my mouth—the outline of night
bled from loneliness.

The hardness of our silence
is measured by instruments of music: a clarinet
carries a note through the faultless dawn—
my desperation turns inward
behind the trunks of maples which show
nothing but blackness when the sun
burns behind their backs.

I try to cover the stain of lips
against mine--the morning’s
cold shine drives my heart into
a house opened by slamming doors
and fist fights.

Outside, the yard grows quiet.
The peaceful blades of grass
are more peaceful divided.