Aubade Poem by Rick Barot

Scintillas of the anatomical
on the vines, buds opening—
make me a figure
for the woken.

On the vines, buds opening—
blue, little throats.
For the woken,
this different tin sky.

Blue, little throats
speak to me in the right voice.
This different tin sky,
the playground thawing.

Speak to me in the right voice,
only clean, sweeter.
The playground thawing
into its primary colors.

Only clean, sweeter,
briary as honeysuckle,
into their primary colors
the words come: bitter, astral.

Briar—as honeysuckle,
as attic webs, constellated
into their primary colors.
White, or whiter.

The words come: bitter, astral.
Make me a figure,
blue little throats,
scintillas of the anatomical.