The noise of morning rises with the cream of dawn:
it is I who opens the gate to Samael,
it is I who finds window glass wanting,
it is I who no longer wishes to wait,
it is I who seek entrance with Thyone.
Can no one help?
Can no one see?
Why is it I am left?
This is how cream degrades in heat,
how milk curdles into sour frowns,
how we are taken away from those we seek.
No matter. I find a fog within fog,
a pathway of crows
the silver outline of tarpons
a crease in water.
~ Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, United States
Note: for John Barryman