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