The Morning by Gregory Corso

When the morning clouds the earth with a wetsuit sound and the eyes of an opera singer stare at the silence inside the sky.

When music swells in the wind’s teeth, when his breath can tickle the branches,

we’ll rise like prisoners feeling the ropes burn on our ankles,

waiting for a shout, for a crackling echo that could send our old bodies spinning into boughs and the wonder of this morning.

• Gregory Corso