We call it pretty morning when at peace
we lie in squares of sunny spaces, envelop
the air transparent in loosely falling dust,
and embrace the moods of light: follow
gold as a dark. About this metal construct
the lighter colors, a mosaic of, say, blue
hung in a medium of perception. While
to apprehend reds, you emulsify your
own body's intuitions. To clarify, I look
into the roots of words: clarificare, clari, clarus,
facere (to make, to make clear), and am distracted
by the Grecian origins of clang, allied to clash,
and see below, clank, klank, a ringing klonk,
but why sucked into these pages emulsified
by dust, inclined to disintegrate, when the
morning eternal with golden squares waits
for no dissertation? when dust reflects the
translucent changes of sky? and the timing
fire lights slowly along the rims of day?