Aubade
Duncan Campbell


Awoke beside you
early, the old mattress

coils sagging
in their breadlines:

mid-April, flower-
drenched vines pressing

their way in through
the window. 

Your lips shied
away, and you told me

that your teeth
tasted old.  And

your hair—tumbledown--
in the whitewash of

morning your hair was
something like shade,

like something I could
hide under.