I write when I rise.
What is palpable at morning,
incorporeal at evening.
Coffee maker fogs the window.
The dawn is inconsolable.
It would be happier with
the promise of more moons.
Empty beer bottles of fear
in the early morning brain.
Disorder of bedsheets,
buzz of flourescent lamp,
Petrified fish gasp
in the empty unnoticed bowl.
Some eyes are windows,
others packed with bricks.
Whisper of morning traffic,
hum of the space heater.
Time to get to work:
words staining paper
with random statements,
each statement evolves a mask,
each mask without a clue
what lies behind, what lies ahead.
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