We wake in scenes that tell us
what we dreamed. Like Pilon's
warm gisants, my head turned

toward yours as if to close a space.
Your pulse oddly restored
in a sculptor's bloc. Nude

and appointed to reflect a light,
to make a chapel out of earth's
casualties.  And then, inevitable

as the breath we have to take, the choice
we're granted in this early hour -
the brackish call of migratory waterfowl

or art's stony appeal: sealed
in a hall as statues of our decay
doomed, yet attached

in a docket of holy days.


Copyright © 2005 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved.
Published in
DMQ Review, Summer 2006.
Aubade