Morning Composures

Come tilt the dawn this way. It’s morning.
Let it come trembling and fumbling like the hands of a beggar
Who composes symphonies on paper napkins
That sound just. like. this:
First, add the trumpets of celestial ramblings
And infinite prose composed by loosed tongues running dry
Reduced to the forging of avenues in the constellations
Hanging on jagged ceilings
Enter clarinets with high brows raised
To toast the skyline and whatever morning God
Has bestowed today
This breeze, and no other breeze, is a dancer
Nothing fancy or callous;
Just a ‘g’ chord of an aged Spanish guitar
Licking its war wounds; weaving stories
Against the backdrop of first light
Swirling as a drum begins to hum its beat, beat, beat.
You can hear the Sun’s heart beat
To the burning rays sweeping through rooms
Of a canvas city and its streets
Beat.
The heart pumps veins full of electricity and harmonicas
Of subtle cellos and whispered violins
And the inexplicable becomes radiant
Every note, is a myth.
Every line becomes legend.
Stuttering from the valves of a heart skipping
Beat.
Chimes play hide and seek with the wind
From an open window of a crowded room of instruments
That God plays with on the weekend
Soundproofed for the neighbors
Lest the beat, beat escapes
To reek havoc on a cul-de-sac in suburbia
Where the deaf-toned have come to live

And yes, there is room for a saxophone
Whistling jazz to the fading street lights below.
It’s morning.
And this beat was made for eyes too heavy to see through
Too wild to embrace you
Making their debut
On a paper napkin crumbled and swollen by the ink of a pen
Or the quill of a feather
Whatever

As long as the words stick together

As long as it writes

As long as the morning plays