At last morning clambers not, but asserts itself,
more a wound than a planetary phenom,
pressing its mouth to the thin batik window covering.

At last we've found a simulation of rest and lost it again,
your forehead's gleaming bridge empty for the moment,
without dissertation or slow-moving traffic,
no hot beverage yet given and nonporous still, as ice.

Here the room awakes in a pained
peeling back of cataracts to light,
light sharp as a hoof, light docile and dumb,
plodding in toddler-steps up to the door.

We are nothing special, remark the table lamp,
the red bulb, a closet of clean garments.

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