best comes dawn

Skeletal, unbound

hammering

of the morning mist:

a calcified cloud

emerging from the kiln

of steamy night.

Withering weather,

unspooled from the

harness of atmosphere,

you lick the streets clean

in your feline hungering.

Into the yawn you delve,

your baggy smock loose,

poised to prick the knot

with fingers you yarn

among dark wetness

and amorous onset
of morning.

Spook the arched-

back cat,

pool the milk of mists

toward your comrades.

They thirst
for your divine permission,

and seek your wisdom
in the dews,

            the blue grass,

the hush
            at the helm
of the hammering.