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.