and I am yawning all
sleepy inside morning:
this time of day is a creaky coffin
lined with sateen, I say butter.
Rubbing my eyes, struggling to stay
away, theorizing keen to sashay up the hill get the blood
pumped and gallumping swift as a freaky cat;
but the practical?
Just curl up narrow, looking
outward at the falling leaky day,
cocoons dropping from the sky;
wake up I shake myself.
I actually have pink roses I could smell
lively not only and goldenrod and berry bushes
grass and trees still have green;
world so wakeful it should shame me,
play pattycake but do not blame me.