Peter Chapman Poetry

Morning O!

O that this time shall not be doubled
into a day or more, into long thirds of night,
denying me hours of realizing

And O, my thanks, for not getting me yet,
to pleasure pleasure pleasure, the plea with sure,
a wicked lure to turning all in my hand,
for its texture, then that again!

plea with sing, so it seems I can't have enough
—this thing that streams my head,
over my tongue, my hands and feet,
just give me morning to avoid defeat—
a soundless, peripoisal sweet

Finally O, the shadows, barely forming,
of my yearning into morning, I love them,
their slow elonging to health, to thrill.

You love me back, my morning thrill.