When noble dawn arrives
After a lecher of a night—
A night that feels
Like the millionth coat of paint
On a wall that never existed—
It seems the weight of one more day
(For what is a day but a shade,
A kind of color that bleeds into the last and the next)
Might, in metastasis,
Topple the facade,
Peel the veneer
Which hides nothing.
It is then the Indian summer blooms out of blue,
Imitating another sunrise:
The red runs down a face,
Followed by the orange and the yellow,
And all at once
Every color in one white.
And in this sunrise
Tomorrow never comes.
There is only the razor of now,