My mornings prick me

My mornings prick me
Like an unkissed desire.
The bloom is the only gloom.
I mistake the sunrise,
As in a photograph,
To a bright sunset.
Which ways do I go?
Rise with the sun;
Or sleep with the Moon?
Sleep by the day;
Rise by the night;
Or both interspersed?
Show me a fire
Where I can drop my thoughts
One by one;
And cook my heart
No guests.
The barbecue is strictly for me
Who knows
I might wake up with sunrise
The next morning

-1992 December