The urgency of certain doorways,
certain root-seats under spreading branches,
places marked by stones that drift and wander;
frantic blood of so many nights,
irresistible sheen of broken vessels
laid out in the pale morning
on a tide of shrink-wrap wax paper notes
and finger-holes in bread
carefully filled with honey;
the plate sticks: the teeth of the day
already scrape on concrete
as love awakens hate
tipped claws, a theory of
the first act's beginning.