Elegy to Morning

John Heward

When my room is gray with morning
it is cool and closed, and
I am marooned blinking
dired salt-water, fingering
the corners of my eyes. The light
insists in a line
that irons my hair
and ear and neck and down, down
where my underwear dries.
The radio clicks and drones
to the clock, the heater convulses
with morning sickness, the ceiling
creaks and crumbles
in the sink--
But the knob grows down
the closet door and then no more,
no vision: I 
can see the disfigurements clearly.