in denim sifted dunes,
dawn’s canvas light
weaving last night’s
through the soft folds
of morning’s pink craving.
Dreading dawn’s vertigo ache of first-wake light,
sound bite quietude a hushed interlude
as carnassials gnaw at gut.
Nausea burns constricted throat,
fingernails scrape at chalk dust entrails
of a dismantled reality.
Cotton-sheathed, saline-soaked wretch,
wracked and ruined, slinks back down
into caliginous midden.
Though light climbs agile through the blinds,
the damned diurnal will not dredge up
the dregs of fragmented flesh today.
In the silent space where old meets new,
the birthlight of the infant dawn
crawling in through the gap
between shade and sill,
chasing the small boat
that has come adrift from its moorings.
Sliding back down between slumber’s sheets
it slips further from my grasp,
bobbing above my head
on the surface of awake.
Hours later I rise
to find that it has already sailed
on the morning tide.