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This morning is tomb-dark.
It’s not till eight that brackish dawn
And the crow’s coarse, “Hark”
Announce daylight and the day’s work;
Till then shadows yawn.
But at six, the grave’s stillness
And snow-fingered air Grope the dark with an embalmer’s care;
Outside, a robin coughs with illness,
Ice flakes fall like cut hair.
The window’s breath-encrusted,
Tap
water runs freezing on skin,Clothes are damp-musted;
Landing air is frost-bound, rasping
Faces like tin.
One
day, ungainly in darkness
With a lank head,Chilled and gripping the sheet's cold spread,
I’ll lie long, for death’s impress
Will have harried my bed.
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©
December 2013