Awake for an hour and a bit, I’ve already told a lie or two,
already made one excuse for not living, another for not
dying, one more for not knowing how to shape prosaic
being into poetic absence. Already, I have recalibrated time
spent waiting for things to be made right, abstracted feeling
so nothing seems too wrong, it is okay now to be unfinished,
a little chipped, seams showing, not to have done everything,
not to have said, have heard everything, already one more
reckoning has faded into the viscous dark. What is worse
than an apology that comes too late, that never comes?
What is colder than sadness? What if that sharp bulbul cry is
not song, just wretched swearing at the sky? Awake so far
ahead of dawn, I have already bargained for a thing you
would call happiness with a thing you wouldn’t call god.