At Dawn, Still Not Quite Life

At dawn, when life’s quite still,
Still eye can see through lines,
Now not quite black, of blinds
Past panes where, stuck in place,
Leaves not quite green, a trace
Of trees that can’t quite fill

One’s field of view, hang faint
On not-quite-blue-washed skies.
No sounds but not-quite-sighs
Far from the frame, their hum,
Not-quite-heard cars, a sum
That’s not quite real, pure paint,

A scene eased on with knife:
Quite still, still not quite life.