The morning it will never be evening again
questing for standstill it was never light like this

the treetop is on fire in flames unmoving white
ground level cries no cock, never again is empty like it is

the day is frozen in its date, it looks backwards
across the bridge of words that knows no other side

here is one’s home, here is to come apart
the supper sweats one cold, the photo drinks one blind

here what was spoiled goes on, after is gilded paper
thin as the buttefly mourning unknowingly
falling out of its wings, its cloak –