The morning is a wan cape

that is steadily stretching 

into this bedroom. 

A beast, a creature crawling

out from sleep,

its neck does arch, 

its chest, strides forward; 

the twilight is a slow ascension

of a body into life. 

So, I sit up, 

a shadow of a kind;

I watch birth. The flesh is red. 

A yoke breaks. 

The yellow takes my face

with thin, fragile hands; 

I kiss a newborn each dawn.

Every one is wailing.