all the city’s a womb, a constant buzz, a dim blue night that a river bisects. you huddle around the window and gaze at the faint traces of the sun left in the sky’s retina. midnight is just a suggestion that lingers in the back of your filament brain. the wordless candle, its aura. ask the dawn for a kiss. the bed is your doom. the night’s black mist bleeds.
when the sun has regained some confidence, its reach on the land reestablished, its lucid eye alert, you hide from its gaze. you cower from the great daisy in the recesses of inverted sleep; 6 in the morning to 3 in the afternoon. rising out of your slumber is like challenging a rip tide, only to find the shore exposes your naked body.