late morning (after a long restless
 
night) blurry eyes focus on the ceiling,

sky in shadows, the clock projects
 
11:11 neon against the wall
an accusation somewhere vague

in my brain, tainted modern

criminal, off-balance, sleeping-in

11:12 is the turn-key
out of bed into the cool room
 
exit the womb between
 
blanket and sheet, blasted
 
with air, light and dust
 
one must cross through
 
each day with an agenda
 
(formed, or not) this critical
 
movement, one world to the next
we traverse our time
 
fractured, come to terms
 
but the point is to awaken
 
alive, to drag our self from
 
the dead of sleep 
Julene Tripp Weaver is our Poet in Residence for March.


Previously: Ordinary Essentials, How I Came to this World, and Rusty Chain Heritage.