The parabolic path of beauty is not so unmentionable
in the morning, before the sludge of our dreams is ground back into our forehead
and before we condemn our midnight memories to the same fate, there is that moment.
Are we sure? Are we completely sure now? Have we dreaded this subtle moment of
morning on Monday's in the past? I dread the evenings, afternoons, new moons and
cat birds. I dread walking through forests, not because of my awesome inability
to understand direction, but because I never know if I'm being toyed with. Is
that a Robin, is that Cardinal, is that a songbird I've never heard before? Or
does everything branch from the same stem animal who's intelligence outshines
all the rest, who's mockery is flattery in a condescending peasant kind of way?
