morning

a man strode through the highest branches

of winter’s charcoal trees, slapped haphazardly

against an orange sky, and i

kicked clouds down the hallway.

they were in my way

and they were primed for flight.

with the gusto of a symphony conductor, i

yank the blinds open and flood my throat

toes

eyes with light.

i’ve got to be me- ti- cu- lous at the windowsill—

each dust-flake of sun i consume will save

my

life.

i birthed an epiphany last night and it glowed

white under the blankets.

in the morning, it had gone

and there i was soaking in a puddle,

with a backache, and the sweetest hangover, alone.