From Dawn to Tusk

Morning. Dreary gray light.
Dim proposition: ended night.
As the leaves ache for the sun
I ache for another dream.

And know, for love,
a thing outside and in,
I will kneel in bed
and prepare to send
sustenance as and with 
the object.

Tell it straight,
advice too late,
my abstract house
is a liceless louse.

And when the morning crowns
an apex matador
I see red
and run.