Near Morning
1
She is buried
in the catacombs
pillars of white pillows
gnashing her teeth
for more dreamfood.
She rubs her bones
like sticks
for fire in there.
2
Outside her sleep.
3
I read a sky so clean,
scrubbed blackboard
potted with chalky
white stars.
The work of janitors cleaning
rooms of night,
emptying wastebaskets
filled with the words and images
day left behind.
Near morning, only you remain.
A warm ember
hidden in pillow and covers.
Outside, an orange burn-off
sunrise sears hole
At the edge of Chicago dawn.
The sunshine sets your
catacombs aflame.
I dig toward your warmth.
Steve Heins
(Photo off Internet
)