Is this then recalibration — to wake,
as if the means of producing a face
melted into the moon, and the alarm now —
whines of coyotes, dog leg
on my hip, and the tick
of slippers in a darkened room.
There’s blood in my drums,
pumped in time with the click and fire
of the coffee machine
and the long black drain of another
vague, indiscriminate night,
restless intrigue in the fridge,
the hum and gathering molds
that shape a hand and twist its works.
Is sun-up then now dawn?
I’ve lost track,
for the measure it seems
has lost its mark and I waver,
between a night without clocks
and another unremitting day.