There is a transition that is never seen
by this machine: when the dark, heavy palm
lifts itself into sky, I am still
buried. And that’s fine with me.
The spectacle of stars softening to red
trailing itself, or the early song
entering the silhouette of trees–
these things are not part of me.
Nice ideas, but they are
transitory, a beauty only gathered
in slow dissolution, beyond
the hard processions of sleep.
Morning blares itself in the window,
and I am pulled into routine’s design.
Written for Eugi’s Weekly Prompt “Night meets Day”.