I don’t know about you, but my dawn doesn’t break.
No, it seeps through the cracks in the quivering night
that can no longer hold all those stars.
Do fingers of morning peel layers of evening
til nothing remains but the flimsiest fibers
of dark in unreachable corners?
Bottom to top, deepest midnight is rent,
silently, silken, with pussycat claws
and left in a ball by the stairs.
If anything’s broken, it’s darkness, not morning.
The fire of sunrise sets darkness to dancing.
And dancing’s the nightbreak of dawn.