cutting great neck

O, to be borne back ceaselessly into the past!

Morning Again.

nothing to have,
nothing to love,
nothing to think,
nothing to buy,
nothing to sell,
nothing to say,
nothing to hear.

only the dawn to feel
like a disease breaking out across your skin
in thick yellow webs.

Streetlights:
from my window like an ember in a field of ash,
its glow smoothed into a distant tip,
a peak, a white flash painted yellow.

how i miss
the highway ones
with bowed heads
in rows and rows
and the head against the window
how i miss
the trembling growls
that whimpered you into sleep.
sometimes the light
golden like a sun
would wake you.

this was years ago.
morning, again.