All I want is morning whoever she is

All I want is morning whoever she is,
a doll or an ideal, maybe a foreign joy,
the nimble lightworker, whoever she is
I can't seem to figure it out. All I want

is this light that I can't grab, is this body
of subtle stuff that doesn't exist. The morning
is something I remember wrongly, is something
I imagine as more than it is: the pink color

of the reflected water, the contour of trees
and leaves dividing the sky. All that I want
is the end of this cold and silent night, is

the end of the lonely feelings of a god.
How might I grab what I can't apprehend
or what I am incapable of possessing?