some cold mornings i drink water
and smile knowing i am one
from my dreams
with the noble women who wait
outside every door
with hands in the pockets
of their black pants
who refuse
today
and any day to ever
more
wake up a woman as i
outside every door
a solid human machine gun black
aimed steady into dry eyes
with the power of patience
they scream but often wake none
of those who unexist
on the other side of every thick door
the cause is lost but every song
grows loud and soaks
through the cracks in the lawns
and knows its way from every dream
that leads some (on cold mornings) to the
window, sink or stream
to import water from dreams not theirs
to draw, to take into a waking life
wedged between concrete doorsteps
and cold water marks
on the temples of their woman heads
at least alive but
no more than some cold
mornings