Roman

The Face of the Morning

Cold breeze.
Conditioned air.
Drip. Drip.
Boiling brine.
A line in the hand
worth two in the mush.
Fate, in other words,
driving at late with the
hurried expression of a face
with too many cups and not
enough teaspoon.
Specificity has it that gravity
generalizes the planet to every 
feat feted by the morning news,
for olds are not molded in the image
of dreams recently lost to the shadow 
of a memory's dribbling drool
that didn't make it to the
cool side of the pillow.