the sunlight
drifts on the air like ozone
and you know
the world is going to burst forth
on this day
and reanimate you

but we want to know
if we are the old made new;
the dead made alive…
or just a babe in the moment
having shed the life
of the moment before

how many of my corpses
have I left in the wake
of this new day’s man?
one for each hour/minute/second?

this sunlight,
it is supposed to warm
convection currents of bright thoughts
that lift me high on my new wax-wings,
not these dark and heavy black sunspots