The morning lavenders are not so alluring
When you're not a part of this world,
They're mere extensions of the mauve homes and shrubs.
These minor hues
Leave only longing
For what seems impossible here
With its scents of morning
And the combing of dreams out of hair.
There is no appetite for endlessness,
The comfort of God comes in minutae
Just like the devil and his details,
Swept left along the way.
They come on like they're needy
Holding to my shoulders like a lump of gum,
But all they want is to be left alone
On the nearest, highest spit of snow
To contemplate nothing.
