The Sin of Waking, #38

Tender rolls the sudden breeze
of the morning through the cracked
open window, rolls across
my hushed chest, my naked face,
across the gasp of my nose
it finds me. I am dreaming.
Suddenly awake, my arms
are weights I can not move, stiff
in neck and shifting my toes.
Between my eyes and those feet
there is nothing, a mountain
of blankets shaped like Orca
or uncooked dough, soft blubber
waiting to be born. Squinting,
I have no ears, take in sounds
disjunct from the falling snow,
the last few birds, the snoring
wife near me. I’m listening,
can hear still the voice of clouds
from my dreams, calling to me,
leading me along a walk
to a river and down through.
I breathe water, sauntering
along the murky bottom,
even at this depth there is light.
The light rolls across the slats
of blinds, rolls faster than air,
plays off my eyes as my arms
tingle and gain life, again
beholden to my whims and schemes.
I roll over, tug blankets
up over my butt, over
my shoulder. Lift my head high
enough to drop it back down,
twist a cracking neck and pull
long the muscles of my back,
bury my nose and my eyes,
try to reclaim my lost wings.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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