Sunday Morning
It’s the stabbing pain in the guts
While frying an egg and then
The gold curtain hem flaps in a breeze
And I step toward its song and
Push aside the veil
Drawing in a flash
To myself
A glimpse of heaven
Along the eye of the lake
And the form of angelic trees
The stabbing is in the guts,
My head, my mouth filled with
Smoke, yolk, and coffee bits
And the endless fight between
The teasing slice of death
And the rope that binds me
Roderick Waller July 2011
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