The torn morning from its grip
welled, tunnelled up from afar,
reflected in the air scar
thrombing like a zeppelin
over the 5:38
fresh from the oven
dawn, porcelain,
rounded with rectangular edges.

The starling zips in between states,
the blue of the sky no counter to earth,
blue placeless, no end to it,
touches down to coax the wormcoats.
It knows what transpires here,
the keening daisies cupping
what sun they can, weak-kneed and dizzy;
the starling can take it or leave it.

Plough deep, bill-sawed,
adance on the topsoil,
the bird snaps the worm
and foots it to a branch.

Side eyes see not the
wander from green to yellow
but prise
the shell from the wall.

The solemn face of a man,
bread in hand,
passes the window at 5:13,
subject to accidie at 11.30,
bed with pulled curtains at 4.00.
Knows it.