Morning after an Argument  

On the rusted edges of
a dying night, language is
a fire, a syllable the spark,
its music unnoticed at first
like snow falling in the dark.  

At graduation, the valedictorian:
“commencement” means beginning.
Those words hang in the air
like tasseled caps captured in photos,
and now I’m saying good morning.  

After a big loss, Coach stands:
this isn’t the end; this is the beginning.
A slow clap follows, and now
I’m saying got ya coffee but what
I mean is sunrise is to darkness  

as good lyrics and a snaking saxophone solo
are to long, winking lashes of silence,
and the waking light has opened
for the wet, new morning
moaning its desire to be born.    

Morning after an Argument  

On the rusted edges of
a dying night, language is
a fire, a syllable the spark,
its music unnoticed at first
like snow falling in the dark.  

I’m saying good morning, and
got ya coffee but what I mean
is sunrise is to darkness as good
lyrics and a snaking saxophone solo
on the radio alarm are to tense silence.