The deep red laugh of morning is lost
on the afternoon's hollowed-out shadow
souped up like a grave to make you
yawn and neighbor no further feather—
Don't buy that bull, go place an order
for whatever juices the sun applauds
in your voice's amnesia's endeavor.
Smother your echo in wet cement,
there to be merrily, merrily loved by
the dawn's early vocab forever.