A Ship Called Monday

 

It’s the morning
a sunlight parade
motion from hands
ruffling sheets
making hair uncover eyes…
…alarm clocks shut
the fuck up
she sleeps as I don’t
waking to the thought
of last night’s words
still hanging in the air
waiting to drop like
gravity is suddenly
turned on
feet slowly swing out
pushing free of white linen
seeking the floor
motion toward the day
…the parade
standing up through
falling words
night is done
the day begun
again
she is an island of
sleep
in an ocean of awake
I sail out
on the tide.

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