opening night resolves to morning

i. a night of diaphanous candor

no silver blade tempered

in the sweat devoid of season

could clasp this catch
of the opera glass
that peeks by chance

through window lace
on the purchase of a gown.

a moment of steely entrainment

that is a lonely bark for now.

this evening hangs
on a steamy salvation,

occludes with beads

a dreamy condensation,

that flies unchecked

on draped white panes

and drips and joins with clarity:

merely a devotional lapse,

left to dry on ashen frames,

in the season of peeking trees.

ii. an ancient way of reckoning

no frisky spring,

the bud that scared us,
poking through the mud
with beige equality.

no patient summer lushness,
that shimmied green
with breezy, leafy flirts
on the shortest of the nights.

no autumn glamor-
that gaudy harlot

of auburn waves

dropping to the floor
when the ceiling is the groom.

no winter gray,

the frosty prick

exhaled in whites of jest,
while the arc of sun is low.

perhaps a plinth placed just so
will recommend a plowing.

iii. every moment of the clock is morning

then, all at once,
a parade of awkward snaps
has fallen from the stairs,
a frozen spray of moments

that crafts a spiky dance

and drifts among the chimes.

all at once

the sliver drapes have parted
for the entrance of your seasons.

the persian weave
predicts the slope,

and just for you
the riser rises
just for you.