Wind kicks a few cups down the alley.

Pocketful of stones, a greasy lot.

Morning chill in fleeting sunlight.
You’d rather stay under this blanket agreement.

Not any storm can house you off the cuff.

The troposphere brushes your cold turned cheek.
Wake up. Get the child to school.

Now you are alone in this story

of cornflakes and Tuesday frost.
If you smell gas leak, all the more reason.

If you can walk back your talking point

happier still. Confusion in the hypodermis.
Poverty of whiteness

or hostile witness —

you’ll need a hole to crawl into
soon enough. Who lingers

finds the daylight wary. Who wavers

stands for nothing still. Hyper
nation state of being always out of

reach for the sky. Though you thought

your silence golden. 
Though you felt like running

until your feet grew wings. This very morning

a crooked heartbeat stalked you out the door.