Near Morning
1
She is buried
  in the catacomb
pillars of white pillows
gnashing her teeth
  for more dreamfood.
She rubs her bones
  like sticks,
for fire in there.
2
Outside her sleep.
  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
the day left behind.
3.
Near morning, only you remain.
  A warm ember
hidden in pillow and covers.
Outside, an orange burn-off
  sunrise sears a hole
At the edge of Chicago dawn.
The sunshine sets your
  catacombs aflame.
I dig toward your warmth.
Steve Heins