Wounded, The Morning
By Clark Hays
Wounded, the morning
leaves a bloodtrail of jewels.
Some real, amethysts and ambers, others cruel
and glittering impostors.
Shards of beer bottles
and broken windshields,
scattered diamonds and emeralds,
lit by the gory spectacle
of the slowly rising sun.
Tiny Birds of Industry,
ruthless and swift,
preen among the detritus
of the vicious and victorious day.
This city is shaped
like a broken heart.
Knitted loosely together by
cement arteries that harden and slowly drown
the soft cries, the pulse and sound,
of morning, wounded.
Crawling off to expire
behind racks of fresh flowers
at the corner florist:
irises, tulips and bunched lilacs,
daffodils, and pink carnations.
Emboldened, these once fragile bouquets,
smile in the conquering light of a cruel new day.
Clark Hays is a poet and writer currently living in Portland, Oregon. He had the good fortune to visit Nashville recently and was enchanted by the city, the vibe and the music scene. His favorite poets are Rilke and Szymborska, his favorite writers are Kathleen McFall and Victor Hugo and his favorite places are the wilderness and old castles that seem haunted.
