To Mute Morning

hours and hours spent without words, every motion to maintain the illusion of rest and a halt to uneven rushes as though he were becoming a clock, becoming a statue, becoming the rook

hours and hours spent hating these flowers that curl up from the mouth; chrysanthemum forced through chapped lips, periwinkles crawling steadily into my nose tickling giggling and sloughing rock from the shoulder

i can't feel it when the water passes by when i'm scaled and divided and split through the center by a rich green moss or when it's pressed to my face to my chest undulating in its bristled heave
i kiss it

i press my stone face to the morning and dare myself to feel nothing when it turns orange purple blue against my cheeks and i dare myself not to think of when this morning will find itself balanced and come to an evening

i dare myself not to imagine this gargoyle split its human heart spilling forth and tumbling and in its crashing to the pavement introduce the morning to red

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