Mornings

On mornings when nothing
Is the trauma of everyday
And the hand that opens the curtains
Is certain of what is solid
The laws that govern the world
Immovable, so to peek out of curtains
Is a past-time in proving
The absurdly obvious. Echoing,
The body realizes movement,
Like everyday, footsteps follow
One another looking for
The path that takes one away from
The curtain, the gate, the lawn
That rises up in invisible cruelty
The whitewash that would make
A blink of the eye, a dream
That catches reality.