In The Morning Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In the morning
When the canary is
Tired and dreary -
Mutilated as it croons
Toward a lulled audience
With pallid faces,

I will still be here
To tousle your hair
And remind you that
The verdure,
The incertitude
Of the heavens
Will be fazed
From the wry breaths
Of the stars.

In the morning
When the shades are pulled
Into an opaque reticence
And your lips
Are incised into nothingness,
I will mend
The eviscerated heavens
And compel you like a flame.

Tell me stories
About your restive dreams,
Your bare soul,
And I will listen
In the mornings of that saccharine dew
Dropping upon the serrated grass.

If this labyrinth
Envelopes us, swallows us whole
And the chaos
And trouble of the hearth
Flourish in a madness,
To be jaded
In this impasse is but a pleasure
Relished by the gods and seraphs.

Now, in the morning
And the rain’s dissonance
Exhausted itself in a torrential fury
I will shun the world
And ignite the darkness
Until the evening
Sighs ephemerally
And all that we own
Will be mornings laced
To the lattices of sanguinity
And your sweet, splendid affinity

And I know, in this beguiling bloom
Of dawn,
You will have all of me,
In the morning.