Dawn By Kwame Dawes

If in the blue gloom of early morning,
the sky heavy with portents of snowfall,
the air crisp with the cold that will
gather about us for the long season ahead,
you see the slick blackness of my car
humming in the empty A lot; and if you
see the light of the dash against
my face, and notice my mouth moving
like a sputtering madman’s might,
and if you see me wave a hand
toward my head and pull away
the knit tam I wear close to the skull,
and if you see me rocking, eyes
closed—then do not second guess
yourself—it is true, I have been
transported into the net of naked
trees, above it all, and my soul
is crying out the deep confusion
of gospel—the wet swelling in my chest
is the longing in me, and these tears
are the language of the unspeakable,