An Aubade Is a Morning Love Poem, Not a Love Poem About Morning

In the why of the cry of the suckling sleepers,
in the moan and groan of rousing,
in the last yawning flicker of sodium street lights
and the croaky jousting of pond frogs drowned
by daybreak pouring dawn down dark throats,
the tight strings and bow of persistent insects
hushed by the crush of morning dew,
I sing this antemeridian song for you,
I sing the jogging-confident steps I cannot see,
faith and foot in the same stretched limb of truth,
I sing the awe of mimosa-dangled earrings,
I sing the pink Patsy Cline rose
looking for a lover in a lost whorl,
I sing for you.