The sun molts behind its cloud chrysalis.
Into something colder. Something staring
Through a dirty window. Face with no
Features from which there’s no sense of being seen
But the possibility of being seen feels like a violation
Of a rule older than writing. Who’s breaking it? This old
Morning, who is in the wrong? Starlings carelessly
Scribble song across the lower skies. It’s fun
Being a troubled young man; but a troubled
Old man is a different bird. And the trouble
Bursts out slowly, like a butterfly pulls
Itself from its insufficient tomb.