At that moment of the night when
the body and the sun can get
no farther apart, the idea
of dawn advances, like a peach
rolls slowly down an orchard hill.
It brushes up against one’s dreams.

Going only off yesterday’s
design, morning’s building begins
with a horizontal measure:
the distance between heaven and
the lines on the palm of a hand.
Its audience is fishermen

heading out to sea, sex workers
returning home, teachers on
their way to school, and many
who clean, who cook, who serve.
Young lovers hardly notice it.
Warm in winter, cold in summer,

dawn brushes up against one’s dreams
until finally it breaks them,
falling on the dark’s final words,
to flood the sky with promising
light that suggests anything can
happen, no matter what the plan.