Sweet Morning

Sweet morning
though it be calm but a blink
a flash on a cud of light
milky and dull
the metallic thread
is the pop in the wind
and what comes after
comes holy ghost city
comes sooner than later
wash my hands of grief
of systems of projections
of these boundaries of hours
wash them away too
the bolted body frame
sits upright I am inside
this electric meat
I throb in the spectacle
on the subway
on the street
on the job
on and on.