the mornings come in torrents

the mornings come

in torrents, from saint ives

to harlem

where the broken dawn no longer shakes us

we wait

knowing the yoke of boredom arrives

with the sun, an unrest

we have come to embrace

a dead thing that goes on decaying

like expectation

it makes for a disappointing show

another version of life

secretly caught on tape, it slows

and replays

for the oogling throng

yet if men form arms like this

and chat like ghosts with the infinite

black, then

the passages will glow and

sweet darwin will roll

with delight