At Break of Day

                                                         The dawn sets our limits; we try to break them.                                                          To wander where? Adorn them, then.                                                                            You carry that silver light, lunar, cold-edged,                                                          quick, with wonder of your dark mother.                                                           Images claw against day’s drowning. Or salmon                                                          strong, leap at the wall, with living                                                          if a desperate spawn. What matter if our brothers                                                          count out the hours in tyranny? The Old Book,                                                          open at the outer limits in its horizon splendor,                                                          throws clouds and seagulls into the expanse,                                                           with their black shadows. There are crumbs for                                                           rodents, more for men. That more is less than all,                                                          and less then something more in morning’s larger still,                                                          whose gate with climbing ivy, hoar,                                                           beckons while it bars at the mansion’s start,                                                           indifferent to toil for room and board                                                          by the progeny of art.