My God, Morning
By Jan Wiezorek
 

My soul is everywhere: tucked in a white coat,

as a canvas for trees along the boulevard,

holding court, mandating that shadow gives

smudge a purpose, when he enters his car,

exhaust streaming thru the fog of the garage,

as his mind parades 3 a.m. thoughts banging

against the siding like an Advent alarm, ringing

What are you going to do up there?—surveying

second-floor windows above the creek, windy

droplets, as his face upturns to the top stairs

& smiles, his nose in rancid catalpa, cedar

in chimneys, incense from passing cars,

the cat wet, as if now holds enough questions

for anyone who seeks, waiting for whatever

answer air contains to under-blanket a grey sky,

to contrast legs & arms wrapped in a drawing room,

under a lampshade, while the terrier barks like a nose

thru wire fencing, chaining boundaries; so, of course,

I wait for the fog to lift, the grey to turn to slate

at least: over the gloom, my God, morning.