Trane DeVore

Jam and Quiet Morning

There he rested with little company,
a slight scent of urine,
something in his tea reminding him of nectar,
of the honey-light that shines through glycerin soap.

Meanwhile, a thousand curved leaves
come into the interest as firewood;
trunk twists like a licorice stick
and falls in slow silence, the sound of 16 rpm.

In the morning he displays great cowardice against the cold,
lies in bed longer and lets linger the warmth;
finally, when he rises, it's skin that walks—
and puts on skin for warmth and comfort.

Even the undergrass is not enough,
the old stuffed cat with amber eyes
that paws the fence in search of eggs,
two blue in the robin's nest, the display,
sucked already and dust-covered,
balls of lint accruing in the corner of the eye.

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© 2002 Electronic Poetry Review