Morning Glories

Anyway,
they said,
there was a way out,
and that way was God.
That was what my mother said
when I climbed in beside her on the bed.
I asked, "do you believe in God?"
and she said, "Yes,"
Yes like clinging to a pebble in a storm
and thinking you are safe.
it hurt me to hear those words
because I think
it's against my principles
to have principles themselves,
and because there was no way out
of my ravine
but there was God.
An image,
a portrait of desire--
I thought to myself,
It would be grand to believe in God,
but it would be like believing in the rich people
because it all comes back to you.
my mother said,
"Well, that happens;
Everyone has something that just bugs them."
and that
was like finding a terrible wound on your leg
then learning there's a spider in your bed.
but the wound was still the same,
and it still bled.
blood like the color of the numbers--
12:58, 1:07.
why couldn't it be morning?
because though books and words and music
will fail you
and though after many years a mother's arms
become like old sleeves, warm,
but worn,
nothing whisks away the curling digit of fear
better than the morning.
sorrow will shrivel up and flee,
from the lion inside me,
the sword of reason growing, sadness done,
in the morning, in the sun.

p.s. I'd still like helpful comments on the previous post (thanks, dippy-hippy, for putting hopefully the first of many up)