Some Mornings

The tickle sun along
the backbone of a dream is
not enough, nor is the
hum-drum chatter of birds

bivouacked in back yard spruce

enough against the weight of
words, the viscous spine
caged supine by ghostly bars

of memory.  No longer
enough, no longer the
musculature to heft each
syllable and pan for nuggets. 

 
No longer a realization, rather
just another moment in
the press, the juice extracted,
exhibiting a hint of remorse, with

a solid backbone of travail and
a long, fading finish of regret.