When did morning
become the sad time?
It used to be the wake
and rise, the fine
time. Now, I wake
to a hole—it’s not
that anything is missing–
or maybe it is.
It’s that my brain
doesn’t fire
until I step
outside, walk a dozen
blocks, let the light
into my eyes.
I used to have the sun
inside of me, and it rose
when I woke. Now
I must seek the dawn
outside.
