Were marmalade on buttered bread,
The horn of the Impala, screen door fractured
Scoldings, warnings--on I love you from
The basement, bathroom, bedroom; all the same
Old places, same old words made new

In morning

When they rode the white Impala
To the concrete altar glistening
Below brick walls inscribed,
In Latin, with some promise of their higher
Elevations if, one step at a time

In morning

Or, more often, two steps at a time,
They climbed to diamond door reflecting
The Impala's red, receding wink
Goodbye in sunglare flashing bask

In morning.