In a defrocked mask of the morning,

smudged in at first, but vast in its launches,

he uses the preening tines of a toothbrush.

With a trill of cold water hung from the faucet,

in scents of modern spray-mist staunched,

he meddles in a colloquy of try-on faces,

ignoring a wart.

Her plasma red streaks are curled in his hairbrush,

and noting it, he finds her immedicable form on his mind.

He shuts off the pipes, deactivates the switch for light.

The cricked on a.m. turns on a vandalous hush;

the seclusion of mating, the postponement of the future,

and the cassia, itself, near to his dislike,

find his two eyes blinking.

This in his sight, and as he first senses ahead of thought,

this tightening harness of rot and revelry

yokes him to the mushing sun-up world.

Bio:  Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  His novel Tatterdemalion was recently released in print and is available most places.  He tries hard.