Yet Again
Yet another impulse
toward the tenderness of morning
I borrow shade from wherever
I can—the minivan,
the portico. The summer is full
stoked. Full throttled,
I breathe easy in the coolness only
of stone, the low
key of water and welcoming breezes,
the lowly and the meek:
the meekness of maybe, the lowliness
of hello. I borrow my shadow
from the daystar, thank you
very much, who are much, much
more than I deserve, beneficent service
dog of the sun, I am blind
led only by the tinkle of your collar, tufts
of your winter coat falling everywhere
about me. There is something homey here,
homely here homey
something final, finial of treetops, the thud
of a car door.
Thanks a lot, Lucifer, for all the good
it got me. Lioness of never
Everland, pounce. Princess, pounce.
Cameron Morse was diagnosed with a glioblastoma in 2014. With a 14.6 month life expectancy, he entered the Creative Writing Program at the University of Missouri—Kansas City and, in 2018, graduated with an M.F.A. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, including New Letters, Bridge Eight, Portland Review and South Dakota Review. His first poetry collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press's 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Baldy (Spartan Press, 2020). He lives with his wife Lili and two children in Blue Springs, Missouri, where he serves as poetry editor for Harbor Review. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.