Gamecocks have barked and crowed us both awake while sunrise throbs through clouds like a cold sore. Mist gathers in the park where once the war raged. No one now dares break the spell of daybreak. Trees comb mist from the sky. From our ninth floor apartment, I admire the foggy lake, like green seaglass, then realize my mistake: it’s Saigon smog. Beyond the metaphor, the view of fields and farms stretching to Saigon is nothing if not serene this lonely hour. Light probes the bedroom, piles of laundry, toys in packages still. I need to shave and shower. Instead I lift you to the blood orange dawn, baptizing you in beauty frothed with poison.